


The Chronicles of Marcus Trevelyan

by Lannister418



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bisexual Male Character, Cullen Has Issues, Fanart, Ferelden, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grey Wardens, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mage Rebellion, Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:44:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 24
Words: 107,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lannister418/pseuds/Lannister418
Summary: With the fledgling Inquisition starting to assert its presence in the hinterlands, Commander Cullen Rutherford questions Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast about the Mage now being hailed as Herald of Andraste.  When an opportunity arises for him to have a proper conversation, he discovers that Marcus Trevelyan is dealing with more demons than the ones from the Fade and that more than a common enemy binds the two of them together.Mature content. Appropriate trigger and spoiler warnings at the start of each chapter





	1. Training Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first experiment with a DA: I fanfic; using the background evolved for my current playthrough character. Angst and Hurt/Comfort with a hint at potential Cullen/Male Inquisitor. At the moment this is a one shot but may become first in a series depending on the response.  
> ***Note for those unfamiliar with the fauna of Southern Thedas***  
> Mabari – a breed of large war-dog found in the Kingdom of Ferelden and appearing frequently in that nation’s heraldry  
> Nug – a small pink hairless beast resembling a cross between a rabbit and a piglet with disturbingly hand-like paws, makes an irritating squeaking sound. Found everywhere and appearing in no heraldry whatsoever  
> ****TRIGGER ALERT****  
> Referenced torture, strong emotions. Rated M for mature content  
> ****SPOILER WARNING****  
> The story begins at an undefined point during the early part of the game, before any significant major plot choices are made. There are brief references to a couple of minor side quests and Cullen’s struggle against addiction but no major events are referenced.  
> Subsequent chapters will carry appropriate spoiler warnings  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen ‘Maker’s Breath!’ Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The illustration of Marcus is by the wonderful Jane of Janearts. Check out her blog on Tumblr for some beautifully realised Dragon Age artwork

**The lands of Southern Thedas are gripped in chaos as fighting between rebel Mages and the knights of the Templar Order threaten to erupt into full-blown war.  With the Kingdom of Ferelden still recovering from the effects of the Fifth Blight, and the Empire of Orlais ravaged by civil war between the forces of Empress Celene and Grand-Duc Gaspard, there is no civil power with the strength or will to resolve the situation.  In a final attempt to broker a peace-deal, Her Holiness Divine Justinia V, head of the Andrastian Chantry, calls a conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes; the holiest shrine in Thedas.**

**The leaders of the Templar Order and the Mage Rebellion gather, along with the Grand Clerics of the Chantry, to seek a solution to the crisis; but a colossal explosion destroys the temple without warning, killing thousands including the Divine herself and tearing a great Breach in the veil between this world and the Fade; the domain of spirits and demons. As a result of this weakening in the Veil, Rifts appear across Southern Thedas allowing demons to spill through, afflicting men, dwarves and elves alike.**

**Only one person survives the explosion, Marcus Trevelyan, a young Mage of noble birth; his left hand scarred with a glowing green mark that seems to have the power to close the Rifts and might just be able to heal the Breach in the sky that threatens to consume the whole world.**

**Saved from the disaster by a mysterious woman, whom many believe to have been Andraste Herself, Marcus is called upon by the Divine’s closest advisors to aid them in closing the breach and restoring peace; but both the young Mage and his companions have plenty of private demons to fight as well.**

“You’ve spent a lot of time in the field with the Herald, what’s he really like?”

Commander Cullen noted the slight arching of Cassandra’s eyebrow at the tremor in his hand as he poured their wine.

“It’s all right, I’m just tired.” The Commander promised her “I’d tell you if it was anything more.”

Cassandra gave a slightly disbelieving grunt as she accepted the cup Cullen offered.  This nightly conversation over a mug of wine wasn’t a part of their ‘Agreement’ but it did provide a chance for the two of them to catch up on private business, and was as close as either of them got to relaxing.

“The Herald is infuriating” she stated categorically “He’s arrogant, opinionated, stubborn, makes a joke of everything; and yet…”

When battle came the brawny young redhead would leap into the heart of it, wielding his Mage’s Staff more like a Templar’s Greatsword. He’d listen to, and act on, the concerns of the highest and lowest with equal diligence; she’d seen him turn out of his way and fight through demons and bandits to keep a promise to honour the shrine of old Elf’s wife, charm grumpy old horse-masters and headstrong young lords into serving the needs of the Inquisition; winning the loyalty of coastal bandits, religious zealots and Orlesian traders with an easy, good humoured, grace.

It didn’t seem like a show or an affectation; under Marcus Trevelyan’s irritatingly cheerful, cocky, exterior was a warrior’s soul and a great, warm, wounded, heart that people around him responded to.  Much as she hated to admit it, Cassandra was beginning to admire the man.  The refugees who gathered under the Inquisition’s protection at Redcliffe Crossroads greeted his arrival with unfeigned love ‘Where the Herald walks, Justice follows’.  These were hard-bitten farmers, not easily won over by outsiders, much less a Mage from the Free Marches; and quick to detect falsehood.

“…He’s a walking contradiction, but could we expect anything else from Andraste’s Herald? If he were some knot of Chantry platitudes I would be suspicious; if only he wasn’t such an incorrigible flirt!”

“You’ve noticed that as well?” Cullen laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Cassandra’s eyes widened

“Maker! He didn’t?”  she exclaimed, more amused than shocked. She would have liked to have seen Cullen’s reaction to that.

The Commander blushed slightly

“Actually… I think he was expressing a more serious… ‘interest’ than just mere flirtation.  It was a bit… awkward”

Cassandra looked at him intently

“I hope you let him down gently.  I think beneath all his bluster he is very lonely, maybe he is the way he is because of that; I believe he has lost many people close to him over the past year. Did you know his sister and nephew died at Kirkwall?”

Cullen shook his head, astonished into silence.  The Herald had asked him, and Varric, a number of questions about what happened in Kirkwall but he had assumed it to be mere curiosity.  He should not have answered so flippantly.  No wonder the Herald showed so little enthusiasm for the Mage Rebellion.  The noble families of the Free Marches were all related to one degree or another. Many in Ostwick must have lost kin during those terrible days.

“She was married to the son of Lord Redbank. The family’s mansion stood close to the Chantry and took the full force of the explosion.  No-one in the house survived.” She paused “Do not mention this to him, I think he only told me because I had spoken about Antony.”

Cullen nodded slightly, taking a mouthful of wine.  The Herald must have won some degree of trust from the taciturn Seeker for her to speak about her brother’s murder. Normally this was a taboo subject, still too painful for her to think about. 

“I was as tactful as I could be” Cullen said, still half lost in thought “I said I could offer nothing more than friendship.  He appeared to accept that with some… disappointment”

The Commander recalled the crestfallen look on the young man’s face, and tried to remember if anything had been said that might give the Herald cause to believe more might be expected.  It was not impossible he had responded to some piece of banter in a way that had been misinterpreted.

“That is a shame.” Cassandra sighed, staring down into her cup

“For him or for me?” Cullen glared across at her “Because if you’re going to join Josephine in becoming matchmaker, I would rather you did not start with Marcus Trevelyan!”

Cassandra set down her mug and gave him a rare smile.  _Flustering Commander Cullen_ was a game that she, Josephine and Leliana enjoyed in equal measure.  It was so easy to do and the results always mildly amusing

“You were the one who asked my opinion of the Herald” she reminded him “And now, if you will excuse me, tomorrow is going to be another long day.”

Once Cassandra left, Cullen drained the last of his own wine and sat down on the bed and pulled off his boots.  He had been curious, that was all.  His own duties kept him in or near Haven most of the time, while Cassandra frequently accompanied the Herald on forays into the Hinterlands or the Storm Coast.  Cullen had only ever really spoken to him on Inquisition business, at Council meetings, or when he had stopped off at the training grounds.  It was natural to be interested in the man who was becoming their de-facto leader

Those visits to the training grounds had become less frequent since their last encounter and, if he was honest, Cullen missed them; the same way he missed his evening mug of wine with Cassandra when she was away. They were little routines that helped distract from the struggles of Lyrium withdrawal, but he could hardly go up to him and say, ‘Could you please come and start flirting with me again?’ Even the idea of it seemed stupid and inappropriate.  If he were truly desperate he could ask Josephine, no doubt the Lady Ambassador would be able advise on the exact protocol for such situations.

He sighed and lit a candle in front of the image of Andraste, turning his mind to the Chant of Light.  The familiar, comforting words from the Canticle of Trials rose to his lips

“Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me…  You have stood with me, when all others have forsaken me…  …Though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence… When the taste of blood fills my mouth then, in the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of Creation…”

The candle burned late into the night.

###

The air was crisp and sharp against Cullen’s skin as he walked through the woods towards his favourite training spot.  He’d discovered the clearing by chance shortly after they settled at Haven; a broad, flat space just above the town that no-one else appeared to know about.  Perfect for an hour’s privacy and some serious training in the grey, pre-dawn, light before the business of the day began.  Clad only in a pair of long wool-knit under-drawers, with his sword strapped to his back, the fresh snow crunched pleasantly under his bare feet.  Templars trained themselves to handle conditions of heat and cold with equanimity; you never knew where in Southern Thedas you might be sent to serve. 

He growled quietly, seeing other footprints in the snow and hearing noises from the clearing ahead.  Subordinates soon learned that noise from the commander signalled a coming storm, and Maker help the poor fool who failed to take shelter.  Cullen moved forward quietly, ready to give the unwitting invader of his sanctuary a surprise they would never forget.

He paused on the edge of the clearing, angry shout frozen in his throat, instantly recognising the strongly built young man with close cropped red hair, like him clad only in wool-knit drawers; skin glowing with the heat of exercise and the familiar green flash coming from the palm of his hand.

Cassandra had been right in what she said; the Herald wielded a staff like a true weapon.  Most Battle-mages lurked at the edge of a conflict, hurling their spells from a safe distance while using their staff as little more than a focus. Lord Trevelyan moved like a born fighter, the wooden training-staff an extension of his arm; spinning and curving as he turned and twisted with fluid, powerful, gestures.  Cullen couldn’t help but admire the firm centring of the young mage’s stance and the elegant confidence of his movements. Even without his magic, a man who wielded a staff like that would be a formidable opponent in a fight.

Marcus spun the training-staff in his hand with a deft flick of his wrist and slammed the butt down hard with an exuberant ‘Ha!’, imagining the lightning arcing from its tip.  Training with a real staff would be more fun, but risked attracting unwelcome attention; besides, he didn’t want to have to explain a forest fire to the others.  As he swung the staff back round into a beginning stance he caught sight of Commander Cullen watching him from the edge of the clearing.

“Commander, good morning to you!” The edges of his neatly curled moustache twitched upwards in a grin as he greeted the older man “Did Varric tell you about this spot as well?”

“Varric?” Cullen looked at him questioningly “He told you about this place?”

“Yes, he said if I wanted somewhere to train privately then this was an ideal…” He paused in the act of reaching for the towel hanging from a nearby tree-branch; closing his eyes and sighing softly as the truth dawned on him “You train here every morning, don’t you?”

“Most mornings” Cullen admitted, sensing one or both of them were victims of one of the dwarf’s pranks.  Marcus nodded ruefully

“This must be payback for my comment about ‘Hard in Hightown’ being found in latrines across Thedas” He pulled down the towel and picked up his training-staff. “My apologies, I’ll leave you to your routine.”

“No!” It came out more forcefully than Cullen had intended and his hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing nervously as he stared past Marcus at the distant peaks “I mean… There’s room enough here for the two of us to train, if you want. You train like a Templar…”

Marcus laughed slightly, Cullen’s awkward shyness in personal interactions was an odd and endearing quality in a man otherwise confident and ferocious.  It had been embarrassing to find that the Commander wasn’t interested in becoming ‘closer’, he must have misread the signals, but it would be nice to spend more time with him again.  Marcus was aware he’d been avoiding Cullen since that conversation and felt bad about it.  The man had offered friendship and the young Mage suspected he had a great need of it.  There was a pain in the Commander’s eyes he recognized, and a sense of some inner struggle he was barely in control of. 

“I was meant to be a Templar” he confessed, enjoying Cullen’s look of surprise “My magic manifested late, when I was 15, already 6 years into training…”

The Trevelyans had always been staunch supporters of the Chantry. It was inevitable that Marcus, as the youngest son, would be gifted to the Templars.  At the age of 9 the boy had been given into the care of Ostwick’s Knight Commander to begin his training.  He thought it was the finest thing in the world; to become one of an elite order, fighting demons and apostates, guarding Mages from the ignorant and foolish, defending the people against blood-magic and abomination.  Then at the age of 15, the dreams began…

“…I thought I had sinned and this was a punishment from the Maker, I begged Andraste every night to take it away; pleaded with the Knight Commander to let me continue training.  My father even asked the Grand Cleric to request a Dispensation from Her Holiness…”

The Knight Commander was sympathetic, sad to lose such a dedicated and diligent young acolyte, and Grand Cleric Sophronia did her utmost to secure a Dispensation, but the law was inflexible; as a Mage, Marcus’s place was within the confines of the Circle of Magi and he passed from the custody of Knight Commander Durward into the hands of Senior Enchanter Lydia.  He was the youngest apprentice in the Circle, and looked at with suspicion for his Templar beginnings.

“My first couple of years were difficult ones. I wasn’t one thing or another, and nobody knew quite how to handle me.  I felt like a Mabari sent to live with Nugs and expected to behave like them; Lydia saw how I was being treated and took me under her personal care. It became a bit better after that; she helped me learn that my Magic wasn’t a curse and that it didn’t have to turn me into some pale, soft, bookworm, but I still thought I was doomed to live in dusty shadows for the rest of my life.”

Cullen’s gaze unconsciously travelled over the younger man’s broad shoulders and powerful arms. ‘Pale, soft, bookworm’ wasn’t the first phrase that came to mind when you looked at Marcus Trevelyan.  He also couldn’t avoid noticing the scars that criss-crossed the muscular torso.  Most of them pink and only recently healed, like the one on his cheek and above his eye. There was one that looked like a red-hot sword-blade had been pressed against his side and Cullen shuddered.  If Marcus spotted this he didn’t comment.

“Then Aidhan was posted to the Circle and everything changed…”

The new Knight-Recruit, little less than a year older than Marcus and fresh from his Vigil, had been transferred from the Markham Circle at the request of the Knight-Commander; to make up for a shortage in the ranks.  Tall and athletic, with black hair and eyes the dark-green of serpentstone, he and the young Mage rapidly became firm friends; despite the strictures against fraternisation. 

“We were the youngest there, and I had my Templar background so it wasn’t that unusual. Lydia and Durward turned a blind eye.  We started training together in secret; he reminded me of much I was forgetting, that any weapon is only as good as the hand and will that wield it.  I learned how to use a staff the way knight does his sword, as an extension of myself.  He taught me how to make my body, as well as my mind, a part of magic…”

Marcus paused and sighed deeply; aware of Cullen’s intense scrutiny he turned to look at him, a deep sadness shadowing his normally bright blue eyes.

“Yes, we became lovers.  The intimacy of our bond… it just seemed natural, inevitable. The first time we kissed I thought the sky would fall on our heads but…  I’m sorry, does this make you uncomfortable?”

Cullen shook his head emphatically

“No, I…  You loved him very much?”

Marcus nodded, swallowing hard as his throat tightened at the memory.

“Aidhan was closer than a brother to me, we were like two halves of a single soul.  He showed me that my life, even as a Mage, didn’t have to be bound within the limits of a Circle. I had heard about the Knights-Enchanter; warrior-mages in the personal service of the Divine who were free of such constraints.  I vowed I would become one; that one day the two of us would fight side by side as Brothers in Faith and Arms.  We did, when the Circles fell…”

“Herald, I…” Cullen began, he could see the distress in the other man’s face and felt the need to give him a chance back off from a subject clearly the source of great grief and pain

Marcus groaned, weary of constantly hearing the title and the burden it placed on him. 

“Cullen, please, just for once can it be ‘Marcus’? I’m beginning to forget what my own name sounds like.”

Cullen felt an ache in his heart at the plea in the young man’s voice. He needed a friend right now, not a follower or adviser, and perhaps this was a story he needed to tell.

“Of course, I’m sorry… Marcus, what happened to him?”

The vote of the Circles to declare independence from the Chantry split the Ostwick Circle in two.  Senior Enchanter Lydia and Knight Commander Durward tried to uphold reason, to convince the rebel Mages to back down and accept the authority of the Divine but the mood for compromise was gone and violence erupted.  Lydia and Durward were the first to be killed and, with their deaths, chaos ensued.  First Enchanter Raymon and a few of the surviving loyalists managed to escape to the sanctuary of a nearby Chantry and the protection of Grand Cleric Sophronia.  Marcus and Aidhan fought side by side to protect their retreat from rogue Templars and rebel Mages alike, and the two young men were captured…

“You’ve seen how ruthless the rogue Templars are to those they suspect of being Mage sympathisers? Imagine how they handled one of their own who was bedding a Mage, and a male one at that…?”

He was forced to watch while Aidhan was tortured by his former comrades, with all the inventive malice they could devise. All Marcus had to do was say a few names and it stopped, they said. Name the sympathisers among the nobles, the clergy and the merchants.  It would had been so easy; a few of his father’s political enemies, some dislikeable clerics, a tradesman who sold short weight and they promised the pain would stop.  Marcus was no fool or simpleton. These men wouldn’t let him or Aidhan live, wouldn’t stop what they were doing; they were enjoying it too much.  This was just part of their game, trying to make him break in front of his lover.

“I’m a Trevelyan, we don’t break easily.  Aidhan just kept saying to me, for as long as he could, ‘Be strong, Marc, be strong.’ So, I stayed strong; I said nothing and they kept going.  Once he was dead they started on me.”

“Maker’s Breath!” Cullen could hardly breathe, his eyes clenched shut, memories crowding in on him; the screams of his dying comrades, the pain of the tortures inflicted on him.  To see the one you loved suffering in front of your eyes, knowing you were helpless to save them and your turn would come next…

He reached out blindly, feeling Marcus grip his hand and hold it tightly.

“I knew I was going to die, I just had to stay strong; like Aidhan had urged.  They made me scream until my throat was raw, but I named no names.  They had ways of keeping me conscious but finally it became too much even for those and I passed out.  The next thing I remembered was a woman’s voice. I thought I was dead and it was Andraste; but it was my mother…”

Bann Lewin Trevelyan and Grand Cleric Sophronia persuaded the Teryn and the other Banns to intervene in the fighting; warning that Ostwick risked becoming another Kirkwall unless the Templars were brought to heel.  Near to death; Marcus had been taken in secret to the family’s Keep, to recover from his wounds.  He touched the silver figure of Andraste that hung around his neck.

“This belonged to Aidhan.  My mother said they found his body and gave it proper cremation; she thought I would want to have it.” His grip on Cullen’s hand tightened slightly “I never told her what he and I were to each other, but mothers have a way of guessing these things.”

It was while he regained his health and strength that a letter came to him from the Grand Cleric.  Divine Justinia had persuaded the Mages and Templars to attend a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, high in the Frostback Mountains between Orlais and Ferelden; Neutral ground where they might seek an end to the violence and bring much-needed peace.  Sophronia, a wise and moderate woman, revered throughout the Free Marches, wanted Marcus to accompany her; to show that bitterness and suspicion were not inevitable… _If one Mage and one Templar can be friends and brothers, fighting for the good of all; then why not more?  You have suffered much and terribly, my dear child, and perhaps here is a chance to give that suffering some meaning; to make your pain serve a noble cause…_

“So, I accompanied the Grand Cleric and the First Enchanter to the Conclave” Marcus gave a resigned shrug “You know the rest…”

“Maker’s Tears! Marcus, I… I’m so sorry…” Cullen stammered, his own experiences at Ferelden’s Circle Tower had warped him for a decade, poisoning his mind with a bitter hatred that he had only begun to shake off when Cassandra offered him a fresh start with the Inquisition. The man beside him had suffered in a similar way but clung on to a hope Cullen still fought to rediscover “How… how can you endure this and not…?”

“I’m angry, Cullen, more than I know how to express. I’ve lost family, friends, mentors, my lover; wise and noble souls slaughtered by cruel and petty thugs, but I must be more, be better, than the men who killed them.  I can’t let them make me monstrous, otherwise it’s all meaningless.  I have to be strong…” The grief and pain churning in his guts became too much and his shoulders shook with a great heaving sob “I owe it to Aidhan…”

Tentatively at first, but with the growing confidence of compassion, Cullen put his arm around Marcus and held him close until the younger man finally sat back up, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand and attempting a smile

“I… I don’t normally embarrass myself like this, but it’s the first time I’ve been able to speak about what happened to anyone.” He glanced up at the sun beginning to creep over the mountains In the valley below them, the Chantry Bell began to ring “I’m afraid I’ve wasted your training time.”

Cullen grasped his hand firmly

“This has not been a waste of time, Marcus, for either of us.  If you ever need to talk, you know where to find me; and if you wish to train together I am always here at First Light…”

“Thank you, Cullen, I think I very well might” Marcus smiled at him with affectionate gratitude and then grinned, the mischievous glint reappearing in his eyes “We possibly ought to go back separately? The Herald and the Commander returning from the woods together in their under-drawers might have a few tongues wagging in the Singing Maiden tonight.”

Cullen laughed, picking up his sword and slapping Marcus on the shoulder

“Let them! I can’t wait to hear what Varric spins this into; I’m sure we’ll have fought half a legion of Darkspawn in the altogether before he’s finished with it!”

Marcus shook his head with a grin

“If there’s not at least two Archdemons and a dragon I’ll be very disappointed.”

 


	2. Lyrium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Breach in the sky is the biggest, but not the only, problem facing the reborn Inquisition. With the rogue Templars and Apostates ‘pacified’ attention turns to the Lyrium smugglers operating in and around Lake Luthian and Hatter’s Woods; although disrupted wildlife presents its own difficulties to the smooth running of a military campaign…  
> Marcus accidentally discovers some of the truth behind Cullen’s struggle and has a heart-to-heart with a convalescing Cassandra about the Commander’s well-being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****TRIGGER ALERT****  
> Strong language, references to addiction, mild violence, mild homo-eroticism, continued hints at potential Cullen/Male Trevelyan . Rated M for mature content  
> ****MILD POTENTIAL SPOILER WARNING****  
> The story is set at an undefined point during the early part of the game, before any significant major plot choices are made. Cullen’s struggle with addiction is extensively discussed but no major events are referenced.  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen ‘Maker’s Breath!’ Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed.

**_9:36 Dragon – Ostwick Circle Tower_ **

Even at midnight, the air hung hot and heavy; like a wool blanket fresh from the laundress.  The rain earlier in the evening had done nothing to diminish the heat, although it fragranced the night with the heady smell of damp vegetation. The sky was clear, full of stars, and Marcus lay on the roof of the Eastward Tower counting off the constellations like a litany

_Eluvia… Fervenial… Peraquialus…_

“You should be asleep”

The young Mage raised himself onto one elbow, turning his head at the sound of Aidhan’s voice.  The dark-haired Templar looked tired and strained, it had been a hard night for everyone.  Marcus shook his head

“Not a chance, Aidh… my room’s like an oven.  Besides, Raymon warned me that dreams after a Harrowing can be quite _intense_ … I could do without any more intensity tonight.”

Aidhan walked over and lay down beside him.  He’d long since doffed his armour, but even in breeches and a linen undershirt he could feel the sweat trickling down his back.  It was unusually hot, even for High Summer, and the weather showed no sign of breaking.

“You’re a full-blown Mage now…” he smiled “although the Knight Commander said it was the strangest Harrowing he’s ever attended.”

Marcus laughed

“So everyone keeps saying.  Lydia told me that Raymon is going to seal the full record so only future First Enchanters can read it.  I’m just glad it’s over.”

“You did well, Marc; I knew you would…” Aidhan stroked his cheek tenderly.  20 was an unusually young age for an apprentice to be selected for Harrowing.  He’d heard some of the other Templars muttering that the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter were giving Marcus an ‘easy pass’ because he was a Trevelyan, and Bann Lewin had made substantial gifts to the Circle.  Such things weren’t supposed to happen, but where wealthy and influential patrons were concerned even a well-run Circle like that of Ostwick might bend the rules.

The Lyrium-induced trance had been deep, however, and the demon an unexpectedly powerful one; It was only the second Harrowing Aidhan had witnessed, but the senior Templars and Enchanters present seemed just as shaken by the experience.  After tonight, no-one could accuse Marc of not having proved himself as a Mage of great potential.  He glanced down at the deceptively fragile-looking Silverite and rock-crystal Lyrium flask that the young man turned in his fingers.  A masterwork of the finest Orlesian craftsmen, you could drop it from the highest bell-tower without so much as scratching the polish.

“Did Lydia give you that?”

Marcus nodded.  It had been a gift to the Senior Enchanter at her Harrowing, thirty years ago, and now she had passed it on to him; a gesture of confidence and affection from the woman who’d become a second mother to him since his entry to the Circle.

“She said ‘Use it wisely, but use it sparingly; it gives power, though the price is high…’”

He looked thoughtfully up at Aidhan, wondering for a moment what price the Templar was going to pay.  Mages used a highly diluted form of Lyrium on rare occasions to enhance potent workings or induce conscious entry to the Fade.  Templars drew their power from daily ingesting the primordial mineral itself.  Lydia had hinted this caused ‘problems’ for them as time went on; the furthest she had gone in warning Marcus about the potential dangers of his deepening relationship with Aidhan. She must know those ‘problems’ well, he supposed, it was common knowledge that Senior Enchanter Lydia and Knight-Commander Durward had been lovers for years.  They certainly bickered like a long-married couple.

Aidhan looked back at him and smiled, then leaned forward and nuzzled a kiss into Marcus’s neck

“I have gift for you as well” the Templar murmured, voice deep and hoarse with desire.

“Should it be used wisely and sparingly?” Marcus chuckled as he put his arms around Aidhan and drew him closer.

“Foolishly and often…” Aidhan growled, tugging at the Mage’s belt.

###

**_9:41 Dragon – Fereldan Hinterlands_ **

“There, if you hadn’t been such a big baby it would’ve been done in half the time...”

Varric tightened and knotted the last of the stitches in the gash on Marcus’s shoulder

“And if you’d used a sharper needle it would’ve taken a quarter of the time.” grumbled the young Mage as the Dwarf rummaged in his pack

“Well, pardon me! Next time we go hunting smugglers, I’ll ask if I can borrow Leliana’s embroidery set”

“I didn’t know Sister Leliana did needlework” Blackwall said, cleaning the last of the blood from his sword with a fistful of grass

“She doesn’t” grinned Varric “She just likes having sharp needles handy”

The Warden laughed, a bit nervously, and shook his head; reasonably convinced Varric was joking, you could never be too sure where Sister Leliana was concerned though.  He heaved a deep, gratified sigh

“Certainly not been a dull day” he observed, glancing over to where Inquisition trackers were expertly skinning and dismembering the carcasses of three Greatbears “Thought I was gonna shit meself when that third one came over the ridge…”

“Someone has, by the smell of it” Marcus wrinkled his nose as Varric smeared a thick greenish-yellow paste over the stitched-up wound, hissing through clenched teeth as he felt it sting

“Maf’rath’s Balls! What’s in that stuff? It smells like druffalo dung!”

“It’s just elfroot, spindleweed, a bit of Tevinter liquorice, boiled wine...” Varric hesitated before adding hastily “and druffalo dung; it’s an old Dwarven remedy!”

Marcus scowled at him

“Somehow you and the finer points of Dwarven ancestral tradition go together like Sera and Dalish poetry.  When you say it’s an ‘old Dwarven remedy’ are you sure you didn’t just get it from an old Dwarf?”

Varric huffed for a bit then conceded defeat

“Well, if you must know; it’s something Hawke used to boil up, but it works wonders.  This’ll keep it clean and free from infection until we get back to the Crossroads.”

The ride back to the Crossroads normally took less than a day at a good pace, but it was already well past noon and none of them were in a mood for hurrying. That encounter with the Carta’s mercenaries would have been a close fought thing even without the Great Bears putting in an appearance.  Three adult males in the same territory was unheard of, Minaeve would be fascinated by this. He was taking back some fur, bone and teeth for her to examine.  The claws; glossy, black and razor sharp, had been shared out as trophies.  Marcus had chosen a nicely matched pair from the big one he’d finished off, the one which had come within few inches of taking his arm off at the shoulder. 

At least they knew where the mercenaries were holed up now and, with a squad of Corporal Vale’s men to back them up, that problem could be rooted up and dealt with. 

There was another reason not to hurry. Redcliffe Farm was on their route back and Horsemaster Dennet’s wife would be sure to welcome them with hot stew, fresh brewed ale and warm dry beds.  It was a contented, well-fed and well-rested group of companions who arrived back at the crossroads late the next afternoon.

A familiar voice could be heard barking orders as they entered the camp

“Commander Cullen!” Marcus called cheerfully as he dismounted “Seeker Pentaghast finally lose her patience with you?”

Cullen shook his head, with a rueful smile.

“She ‘suggested’ if I was so keen about detailed reports from the Hinterlands that I should either re-read the ones she submitted or come out and see for myself”

“So, she’s annoyed with you and you’ve run out here to hide for a week or two?” Marcus grinned as Cullen nodded a bit sheepishly “How’s her leg doing?”

“Almost completely healed. Enchanter Ellendra’s done a good job”

Cassandra convalescing was like a wyvern with toothache.  Everyone would be glad when she was up and hitting things again.

“Bad timing, Curly!” called Varric, dusting off his boots “You just missed the big hunt.”

Cullen looked quizzically at the herald, noticing the awkward way the younger man carried his arm. Marcus patted him on the shoulder

“Let’s go get a drink; Harding has a fresh batch of ale brewing and I can’t wait to hear how Varric tells this story.  I bet he omits the part about screaming like a chantry novice…” he laughed at the dwarf’s irate glare “Oh, sorry! Was it an old Dwarven war-cry?”

###

The mercenaries had been expecting a large force approaching from the front, but Vale’s men knew the territory and the paths through the crags which allowed them to flank around the defences. Being attacked by smaller groups from half a dozen directions had them on the wrong foot from the start and the fight was brutal but short.  Marcus was pretty sure he’d popped a couple of stitches in his shoulder, and that it would hurt like a bastard when the euphoria of battle wore off, but it was worth it. He’d only seen Cullen in a real fight once before, during the first attempt to seal the Breach. The man was relentless, a human whirlwind, blade flashing like the lightning from the Mage’s staff as he cut down the mercenary captain, deftly evading the blows from great warhammer.

He was reasonably sure he’d heard the Commander laugh at one point.  This clearly made up for his disappointment at missing out on the Great Bears.

They’d dealt with the ‘bandits’ and now knew where the Carta smugglers were operating from, an abandoned Deep Roads entrance near Lake Luthian.  Blackwall had volunteered to lead a force in there.  Deep Roads meant the risk of Darkspawn and who better than a Grey Warden for dealing with them?

On top of that, the Villa would be a good base of operations for the Inquisition in this remote part of the hinterlands. If the Arl didn’t like it, then he could send some of his own men to take responsibility for the protection of his Arling.  Josephine could probably put that in more diplomatic language.

Seizing the Lyrium cache was an added bonus.  The Inquisition Mages, and those Templars who’d stayed on at Haven after the destruction of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, needed it and stockpiles were getting low. Until they could agree a deal with Orzammar to ensure a regular supply, the Inquisition had to rely on what they could scavenge.  It was far from ideal and Marcus was glad he’d taken Lydia’s advice to heart.

On the other hand, the quantity of Red Lyrium they’d found was troubling.  The e Carta wouldn’t be hunting for, or mining, such a lethal substance unless they had a guaranteed buyer. There were a lot of unanswered questions piling up and Marcus was sure they wouldn’t like the answers. At the thought of Lyrium, his hand strayed unconsciously to the flask at his belt

_Shit!_

It must have come off in the last fight.  The contents didn’t worry him, it was weeks since he’d last used any and the stuff gave him a horrendous hangover; but Lydia’s gift? No way in all the hells did he want to lose that

Marcus raced up the stairs, past Inquisition soldiers clearing out the remains of the mercenaries, and into the upper hall. He sighed with relief seeing Cullen there, holding the flask in his hand.

“Thank the Maker! You found it, I would hate to have…”

Marcus stopped mid-sentence, Cullen did not appear to have registered his appearance.  The man stood in the middle of the room, staring at the translucent flask in his ungloved hand as if hypnotised; breathing heavily through his nose, amber eyes shadowed and cloudy, sweat beading his face and neck.  Marcus could see the muscles in his jaw and neck clenching and flexing as if the Commander was fighting some pressing inner need.

“Cullen?”

Cullen flinched and turned, seeming to see Marcus for the first time.

“Marcus, I…” he cleared his throat “This is yours. It must have come off your belt…”

He still stood there, the flask resting in the palm of his hand, making no movement to return it.  Marcus walked over and took it from him, hooking it securely into place.

“Thank you…” he began, then flared his nostrils slightly.  Something odd…

Cullen jerked his head back as Marcus leaned in suddenly and sniffed at the skin of his neck, coming so close that their cheeks brushed for a second

“What are you…?” surprise and anger flashed in his eyes and he took a step away from the Mage, fists clenching.

“When did you last take Lyrium?” Marcus asked, fixing the commander with a steady, serious, gaze.  The unexpected question banished the commander’s anger, leaving him flushed and almost wordless.

“Maker! How…? I mean… you can…?” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath to compose himself while Marcus waited quietly “Not since I joined the Inquisition, just over 12 months.  How did you know?”

“Twelve months…?” It was Marcus’s turn to be astonished; Templars were saturated with Lyrium and the risks of withdrawal were well known.  He’d seen a couple of cases back in Ostwick and it was far from pleasant.  “Cullen, this is dangerous!”

“Some days are worse than others” Cullen admitted.  His hands unclenched and he began to seem less hostile, although still shaking with nervous tension “Cassandra has known since the beginning.  She monitors me, making sure I’m fit for duty; that I can manage my responsibilities. This will not be allowed to affect my work for the Inquisition.”

“Oh, hang the Inquisition!” Marcus retorted “It’s you I’m concerned about.  This could kill you, or drive you mad…”

“It hasn’t yet…” Cullen interjected sharply, then his voice softened.  He didn’t want to have this conversation, not here anyway and certainly not now, but something would have to be said.  He could hardly walk out the room without some form of explanation “I have to do this, Marcus.  Lyrium ties me to a past I am not proud of; to a man I do not wish to be.  I have to break that tie, to prove to myself that I’m no longer that man; that I can make a new beginning without… without being bound by this… this need”

He gestured, as if trying to brush off the obsession clinging to him.  Marcus reached out and grasped Cullen’s hand warmly.  The other man started slightly but didn’t pull away

“What you’re doing is very dangerous, but I understand why you feel you must; and I respect you for it. If it’s any comfort, I think you’re strong enough to do this.”

“The man I was…” Cullen lowered his head, unable to look at Marcus “He would not have regarded you kindly, only seen you as a menace to be kept caged and isolated.  When I think of how I would have treated you then, I’m ashamed… deeply ashamed”

“But we are friends, I hope” Marcus cocked his head to try and catch Cullen’s eye “You’re not that man anymore, and I rather think I like who you are now.  If there’s anything I can do to help?”

Cullen sighed heavily

“Yes, we are friends; and I value your friendship, truly.  That is help enough…”

Marcus squeezed Cullen’s hand fondly, then let it go.  Their eyes met and for the briefest moment Marcus had the impression the Commander was about to say something more but changed his mind.  He shook his head and grimaced; this place stank of blood, shit and lyrium.  The sooner they got out of here, the better.

“Vale and his men can handle the clear-up; we should get on the road.  We can make Redcliffe Farm by sunset and you’ve yet to sample Mistress Dennet’s venison stew.”

Cullen laughed, the tension in his face and posture dissolving

“Is that an order… Herald?”

Marcus laughed with him

“If it makes you feel any better, yes! Now, let’s get going. Before I’m so hungry I’m tempted to eat something Blackwall’s cooked!”

Once away from the claustrophobic, musty, atmosphere of the villa, Cullen appeared more relaxed and easy with himself; joking with Blackwall as the party rode along.  They’d been riding for about an hour when a rapidly approaching crashing and roaring caught all their attentions.  Blackwall squinted in its direction, then laughed as he swung his shield round and onto his arm.

“Looks like you’re about to get your wish, Commander!”

“Oh you have _got_ to be fucking _shitting_ me!” exclaimed Varric, unhooking Bianca, as the Great Bear came charging through the undergrowth.

###

“Another Great Bear?” Cassandra exclaimed, then growled irritably “Why does this have to happen when I am stuck in a bed being clucked over by old hens?”

The Seeker’s broken leg was almost completely healed.  Both Enchanter Ellendra and Mother Giselle had given their assurances she would be up and about before the end of the week.  Marcus was certain that both women, careful and attentive healers though they were, would be relieved to bid farewell to their irascible patient.

“Sheer bad timing!” he laughed “I think Varric will be happy if he never sees another one in his life.  Minaeve’s excited though, she seems to think this proves her theory about the breach disrupting behaviour patterns amongst the wildlife.”

Cassandra grunted

“Well it’s disrupting everything else, why not the animals?” She paused, weighing her next question carefully “And Cullen… was he all right?”

“Happy as a nug in shite fighting that bear!” Marcus smiled broadly, but then his expression took a serious turn “There was a lot of raw Lyrium, and some of the red stuff, at the villa. It was difficult for him, but he got through it. I know he hasn’t taken any since leaving Kirkwall”

Cassandra sighed, relieved that someone else shared Cullen’s secret; with her, carrying it by herself was a burden she was willing to shoulder but it was still a heavy one.

“When I met him in Kirkwall, he was a broken man” she admitted “Being Cullen, he was trying to hold the remaining Templars together to the best of his abilities but I could tell it was destroying him.  It wasn’t just for his military abilities that asked him to join the Inquisition; I could see the path he was on would end up killing him and I did not want a good man to be wasted like that.  He has suffered much…”

Marcus nodded quietly

“I know he was at Kinloch Hold during the Blight.  Even in Ostwick we heard stories about what happened, what was done to the Templars there…”

Cassandra hesitated; Cullen had told her much in confidence and she was unsure what she could share with Marcus without his permission.  The young Mage was no fool though, no matter how hard he played one at times, and he had clearly been able to work out some of Cullen’s history for himself.

“He was barely 19.  The damage to his mind is only now beginning to heal and the Lyrium withdrawal does not help.  For him to offer friendship to a Mage shows a great deal of trust.  I hope you can appreciate that…”

Marcus sensed the unspoken implication under the Seeker’s words

“I’m not planning on a seduction, Cassandra” he promised her “I care for Cullen, and I understand what he’s trying to do.  I wouldn’t want to undermine that, or him.”

The young man looked, and sounded, serious and sincere; Cassandra felt her fears ease a little.  Cullen could be, well, vulnerable at times when the craving was bad.  She had never thought that Marcus would deliberately take advantage of the Commander’s trust but she was glad he had an appreciation of what was involved, and what might be at stake in developing any sort of closeness to a man in his situation. 

“Cullen needs a friend right now; more than he needs anything else.  I am pleased you see that and that you are not looking for something that he is not ready to give.”

Something about the way she said the last part made Marcus pause and he looked at her questioningly, although Cassandra’s expression gave nothing away and he reckoned enquiring further would be fruitless and counter-productive.

“Well, he has two friends to watch out for him now; and I hope I can do as well as you.”

Cassandra regarded the young man carefully.  There were depths to Marcus Trevelyan that he took great care to hide from the casual observer; an active thoughtful compassion and a commitment to what was right.  Despite sometimes wanting to strangle him out of sheer frustration she could not deny that he had done more than any of them to give the Inquisition a sense of direction and a connection to the people it sought to protect.

“Half the time I think you behave like an idiot only so people don’t put you on a pedestal like some gilded saint. The rest of the time I think you are an idiot who just happens to have his heart in the right place.” She sighed and adjusted her leg under the covers “Either way, it is oddly comforting.”

“I’m glad I can retain something of my mystery” Marcus laughed “Shall I tell Sister Chanice you’re ready for your sponge bath?”

“Get! Out! Now!”

###

**A few days later**

Marcus knew where to find Cullen, at this time of the evening the Commander would be in the stables, assuring himself the horses were well bedded down.  Really, he would be petting them and feeding apples to his favourites.  Marcus recalled Leliana saying something about Cullen being a farmer’s son and he certainly appeared happier and more relaxed with animals than he was around most people.

Sure enough, there he was, smiling quietly and stroking Thunder, the big Fereldan charger; while keeping a careful distance from the stable’s more _unusual_ occupants.

“I still can’t get used to that thing” Cullen glanced over at the Bog Unicorn “I tried giving it an apple and it just looked at me in way that made me want to be very far away. Have you ever ridden it?”

“Once” Marcus admitted, “It felt _weird,_ like it was trying to take me somewhere that I needed to be but didn’t really want to visit.  Horsemaster Dennet says it prefers raw liver, if you want to know _._ ”

Cullen shuddered and shook his head.

“Weird is one thing we definitely don’t need more of around here. Are you eating at the Maiden tonight?”

“Oh yes!  Flissa said there was a boar pie tonight and promised to save some.  She also said that Maryden has a sore throat so it should be safe; care to join me?”

“I usually just get something from the kitchens and eat in my quarters” Cullen hesitated “With onion gravy…?”

“And roast parsnips” Marcus added, knowing this to be the deal clincher 

“Oh...  Well! In that case, I suppose it would be good to eat in company for a change.”

“It was your smell, by the way” Marcus said quietly as they walked towards the gate “That was what told me you’d stopped taking Lyrium.”

“My smell?” Cullen paused, looking at him questioningly “How could that tell you anything?”

“Lyrium gives Templars a particular scent, not unpleasant, but distinctive.  It must be because they take so much of it.  Mages appear to be particularly sensitive to the smell.  Yours is still there but… weaker… than it would normally be.”

Cullen sighed heavily 

“So, it’s still with me?”

The resigned despair in his voice twisted Marcus’s guts. He could give Cullen a comfortable lie but sensed this wouldn’t be appreciated. 

“If you want an honest answer, I think it’s going to be with you for a long time; but I’m here for you, and so is Cassandra.  We won’t let you fall.  I promise you”

“Thank you” Cullen’s voice was almost too faint to be heard. It was difficult for him to accept, that someone could have an idea of who and what he’d been and still be willing to show him kindness. 

Cassandra, he could understand.  She needed him as the sword arm of the Inquisition and had invested a great deal of faith in him. Marcus? There was every logical reason for the Mage to hate him, or at least distrust him.  There was a time when he had embodied everything that was wrong with the Templar Order. Perhaps it was their common pain, the experience of betrayal and brutal loss, that enabled the Herald to see past that; to find the man Cullen was trying to be and bond with that spark struggling in the darkness. Perhaps Andraste truly had sent him and, if that was the case...

He shook his head slightly, that thought led to places he wasn’t ready to visit and, besides, the smell of roast boar pie was tickling at his nostrils. The idea of that, and a jug of strong brown ale shared with the friend beside him, was grounding and he clung to it. 

They halted outside the tavern door and Marcus took something from the wallet at his side. Now was definitely the right time. 

“You didn’t take a trophy from the bear you killed.  That’s bad luck, so I took the liberty of having this made for you”

Cullen looked at the cloak pin Marcus placed in his hand.  A large foreclaw, polished to the lustre of obsidian, set in a finely worked steel mount.  A design of interlaced Mabari was delicately chased into the metal 

“Harrit enjoyed making it.  He said he doesn’t get the chance to do much fine work these days.”

Cullen couldn’t take his eyes off it.  The workmanship was beautiful and the thought behind the gift a warm and compassionate one, but he couldn’t...

“Templars are not permitted to...” he began

 “You’re not a Templar any more, remember?” Marcus said, smiling “I don’t recall Officers of the Inquisition being prohibited from receiving gifts.  If they are, Josephine will have to return those Rivaini candies; and I don’t want to be the one to tell her that!” 

Cullen looked up at Marcus then back to the pin and something unknotted inside him.  This was more than just a generous token of friendship, it was a sign Marcus believed that he could... No, that he _would_ break this chain that bound him to a past he hated 

“Marcus...  I..  Thank you” Cullen removed the plain steel pin from his cloak and replaced it with the one Marcus gave him, squinting his head to see it glint darkly against the thick fur “This… this means a great deal.”

“I know” Marcus took his hand and shook it warmly “Happy Birthday, Cullen!”

The Commander looked at him in astonishment, then sighed and rolled his eyes

“Leliana, of course…” he shook his head with a rueful smile “I should have guessed.”

“She’s good for more than just finding out what the Arishok had for breakfast,” Marcus laughed “and, as far as I’m concerned, Officers of the Inquisition are also allowed to celebrate their birthdays”

“Well I just hope you didn’t tell anyone else” Cullen muttered as he pushed at the door of the Singing Maiden

“I wouldn’t dream of it…” Marcus replied with a look of mock indignation

“SURPRISE!!!!” yelled the assembled crowd within the tavern

“…Leliana may have let something slip to Josephine though.”

 


	3. Alliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***MAJOR SPOILER ALERT***  
> This story is set immediately after 'In Hushed Whispers' and contains numerous references to the events in that episode of the game.
> 
> On his return from Redcliffe Castle and the confrontation with Magister Alexius, Marcus finds that not everyone is entirely happy with the decisions he's made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alert***  
> Strong language, references to character death, references to torture  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed.

**The story so far…**

**Meeting with the rebel Mages at Redcliffe to discuss a potential alliance, Marcus is shocked to discover they have submitted to the authority of the Tevinter Imperium and are now bound in servitude to the Magister Alexius, a powerful member of Tevinter's ruling elite. More troubling is the revelation that Alexius is a member of an underground cult, the Venatori, dedicated to re-establishing the Imperium's supremacy and serving a mysterious 'Elder One'. The Magister has used a highly dangerous and unstable form of temporal magic to secure an alliance with the Mages before the Inquisition could arrive; solely for the purpose of drawing Marcus to him.**

**Warned by Dorian Pavus, a former student of Alexius opposed to the Venatori and their goals, Marcus manages to evade the trap set for him. Despite this, he and Dorian are flung forward in time to a nightmare future where the Elder One has arisen and the world is a demon-haunted wasteland. Escaping from this hell and returning to the present, they find Redcliffe Castle surrounded by the Fereldan army, with Queen Anora furious at the rebel mages for their abuse of her hospitality. The Herald of Andraste is forced to make a snap decision, one that doesn't find favour with all his advisors…**

**9:30 Dragon; Kinloch Hold, Ferelden**

_Please, please, please, make it stop, make it stop. It's not real, it's not real. It can't be real_

The others had stopped screaming a long time ago but  ** _they_**  were keeping him alive. Cullen huddled in the corner, crouched in the stink of his own shit, hands vainly trying to shield his head from the repeated invasions. Sharp, cold, acid fingers leaching into his brain, slicing under skin, through muscle and bone, laying him open to their warped, repulsive, games...

_It's not real, it's not real; please, Maker, don't let it be real. Please, make it stop, make it stop…_

It couldn't be real. It had to be  ** _them_** , twisting and pulling at his mind; dragging out his darkest, most twisted feelings and desires, leaving them bare to the world. The human body couldn't do these things, couldn't have these things done to it, and still survive. This was his fault; if he hadn't sinned, if he hadn't indulged these thoughts, then the mages and their demons would have nothing to torture him with...

_Please, please, Maker, please make it stop! Holy Andraste I'm sorry! Blessed Lady; forgive me for thinking about_ **_her_ ** _so much, for wondering what it would be like to… forgive me for letting Thomas touch me there… for not believing… for failing in my duty. I'm weak, I'm a sinner, but please, I promise I'll be good; please make them go away and I swear I'll never do it again. Please just make it all go away… I'm afraid… I don't want to be here anymore… No! No please… Not again! Not that! No… please! Leave me alone… Maker, help me! It's not real… please…._

The young Templar's desperate prayers disintegrated into a long, incoherent wail of terror and agony…

**9:41 Dragon. Haven**

"…You should have consulted us first!"

"There could be abominations, blood-mages, these people can't be trusted…"

The harsh, accusing voices echoed off the walls of the council room and through Marcus's pounding head. After Redcliffe… after everything he'd seen and been through this was too much! His fist slammed down on the table, making the map-markers jump and rattle

"Fine! Perhaps I should have asked Queen Anora and half the  _fucking_ Fereldan army to sit and twiddle their thumbs while I found a messenger bird? We could have all played a nice game of Wicked Grace while we waited for you to finish arguing and reply! I had to decide the fate of  _hundreds_  of men, women and children there and then; I did what I thought was best for them and us. If you can't trust me to make those decisions then maybe you shouldn't be sending me out there…"

The door banged shut behind him and an awkward silence descended, broken eventually by Josephine

"An alliance with the rebel Mages  _was_  the reason we sent the Herald to Redcliffe in the first place…"

The reproach underneath her carefully weighted words was unmistakable. Cullen glanced at Cassandra, nervously running his hand through his thick, blond, hair; lack of sleep and a feeling like fire-ants were crawling underneath his skin had made him more abrasive than he might have intended.

"We weren't attacking the Herald's decision; merely pointing out the risks of…"

"It sounded like you were," Leliana interjected sharply "and the risks would still be there if we'd conscripted the Mages rather than making them our allies. At least this way we'll have their cooperation in managing any potential dangers. Marcus made his decision in extreme circumstances, and despite his own feelings about the Mage Rebellion. We have to make this alliance work; the Breach will not wait much longer."

Cassandra sighed heavily. She had let her feelings run away with her; the urgent need to seal the breach was wearing at everyone's nerves, but it was unfair to make the Herald the target of her frustrations. He was the one leading from the front, after all, and the pressure weighed on him more than on anyone else in the Inquisition.

"I will find the Herald, and apologise to him…" she offered, but Cullen was already on his feet

"No, I will. Some of the things I said, they may have come across as… well…"

"Rather personal and hurtful?" Josephine muttered in a stage whisper as she arranged her notes. The ambassador was quietly fond of Marcus Trevelyan, still hardly more than a boy but with the future of Thedas resting on his shoulders, and Commander Cullen had let his formidable temper get the better of him.

"Yes, Lady Montilyet,  _thank you_!" snapped Cullen, picking up his gloves.

Leliana turned to Josephine and Cassandra as the door closed behind the Commander.

"I think we should call it a day, don't you? Assuming everyone is on speaking terms tomorrow, we can begin planning the assault on the Breach in the morning."

###

"Commander Cullen!"

Cullen groaned inwardly as he crossed the nave of the Chantry. Lady Vivienne was the last person he wanted to speak to right now, but he had a better chance of avoiding a Qunari Dreadnought than getting away from the Imperial Enchanter as she bore down on him.

"Yes, Madame du Fer?" he asked sharply. Vivienne fixed him with a steely glare, although her voice was light and charming.

"Whatever did you say to our dear Lord Marcus? He stormed out of here with a face like thunder, not even responding to my greeting which is  _most_  unlike him!"

"We had a disagreement about the alliance with the Mages" Cullen responded, fighting the urge to tell the woman to keep her nose out of it. Madame du Fer might be up alongside Chancellor Roderick at the top of his list of 'People I would most like to push into a Fade-Rift when no-one's looking' but, much though he hated to admit it, the woman was a valuable ally and her skills as a Mage were unquestionable.

"No, you didn't" Vivienne corrected, in the manner of a disappointed governess chiding her ward "Lord Marcus and I had a disagreement about that on the way back from Redcliffe; which we resolved like civilised adults. You were yelling like a common hooligan!"

"Now isn't a good time, Madame…" Cullen began, only to be immediately interrupted; Vivienne's tone stern and serious

"I saw the look in that young man's eyes when he came back from wherever Alexius sent him. He had seen Hell, and then needed to act immediately to avert a massacre and a possible war with Ferelden. We may not entirely agree with his decision but as his advisors it is our duty to make that decision work, and not to undermine his confidence."

Cullen opened his mouth to object but had to admit inwardly that the woman, for all her arrogant self-promotion, had hit the nail square on his head.

"I'm on my way to apologise to him" he said quietly and then, in a firmer tone to deny her complete victory "I trust that meets with your approval?"

Vivienne favoured him with a dazzlingly insincere smile

"Of course, darling! I knew that underneath all that burnished steel and…" she flicked the thick fur collar of his cloak with her fan "…whatever unfortunate beast this came from, there beats a decent heart. Do run along now!"

Out of the stifling, incense-heavy, atmosphere of the Chantry, Cullen rounded the corner and pressed his burning forehead against the cold stone wall of the cloister; drawing in great gulps of icy evening air. The craving was strong, stronger than he'd known it for a while; scraping at the back of his skull, every cell of his body screaming for Lyrium. Just one dose… he could imagine the cool, blue, sensation of calm and power surging through his veins. One dose wouldn't hurt, would it? Just enough to get him through tonight. He jumped at the sound of Varric's voice, turning to see the dwarf sitting on one of the cloister benches, half hidden in shadow

"Tough day, Curly?" He held out a bottle to the Commander "Take a swig of this, it'll make it all feel better!"

Cullen hesitated, then took the bottle and swallowed a mouthful; coughing as the raw alcohol exploded on the back of his throat

"Maker's Breath! What the…?"

Varric laughed

"Blackwall brews it in a still out the back of the smithy, calls it Dragon's Piss. He swears no-ones gone blind or mad from it… yet!"

Cullen wiped the sweat off his face, feeling the heat of the liquor making its way down to his stomach.

"I should get him to fill a few barrels, we can light them and throw them at the enemy."

"Good idea! I'll suggest it." Varric swallowed a mouthful and smacked his lips with relish "If you're trying to find Red, I saw him take a sword from the armoury and head towards the training ground. Seemed like a man determined to chop something into tiny pieces. Guess something got under his skin…"

Cullen waited for the inevitable accusations, but the Dwarf didn't seem inclined to say more; if anything, he appeared thoughtful, troubled. He'd been with Marcus at Redcliffe Castle, maybe he could shed some more light…

"What happened in Redcliffe? I've read the report, but was he really…?"

"It wasn't an illusion. That crazy Magister did something with an amulet, there was a green flash and Red vanished along with that other Tevinter, Dorian. A few seconds later, there's another flash and the two of them are back. The Magister just caved in, like he knew he'd lost" Varric handed the bottle back to Cullen. "The look on Red's face when he came back; I don't know what he saw and I don't think I want to."

Blackwall and Vivienne had said much the same. There had been a moment when Marcus and this Lord Pavus had been 'gone', whatever that meant; and whatever happened had shaken him to the core. He'd said virtually nothing about it on the journey back from Redcliffe, as if still trying to understand and come to terms with the experience.

Cullen took a deep breath. That 'Dragon's Piss' may have scalded his guts, but the edges of the craving were dulled; he might even be able to speak to Marcus without the two of them yelling at each other again.

"I should find him. We had an argument and I said some… some regrettable things." He made to return the bottle but Varric shook his head.

"Keep it, I can get more. If you want my advice, you and Red should get very drunk tonight. You both need it."

Cullen almost laughed

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea in the circumstances."

"Of course not! It's a terrible idea" Varric grinned "But even if you don't want to, I'm pretty sure Red will; so, take it as a peace offering!"

###

Marcus swung the greatsword round in a tight curve; slicing upwards and deep into the armpit of the training dummy, now little more than rags and stuffing. He'd begun using two-handed weapons before his magic manifested and had picked them up again when he and Aidhan began their 'secret' training sessions. Tall, strong and agile, even as a youth; his trainers decided he had what it took to master that difficult and devastating art, and he wielded the massive blade with the same powerful, fluid grace that he now used with his mage's staff. In the back of his mind he could still hear Aidhan's voice

_It's like chess, Marc, you've got to think at least six moves ahead. Pay attention to what your opponent's doing now, and what he's preparing to do in response to your strike, and you've got control of the fight_

Cullen sat at the edge of the training ground, watching Marcus efficiently dismembering the dummy. Some two-handed fighters appeared clumsy, thuggish, but the young mage's movements were tight, elegant and controlled; the sword appearing to weave a flashing cage of steel around him. The commander could understand why Ostwick's Knight-Commander would have been sorry to lose such a promising acolyte to the confines of the Circle.

Marcus was aware of Cullen's scrutiny but he wasn't ready to speak to the commander just yet, still too much nervous energy needed expending before that could happen, and the steel continued to bite and tear at the dummy. A final blow, delivered with all his strength behind it, split the dummy almost in two from crotch to neck and Marcus couldn't hold back a quiet smile as he heard Cullen's pained intake of breath. Picking up the sheath he walked over and sat down beside Cullen, carefully wiping the shreds of stuffing from the blade with a soft cloth.

"I shouldn't have walked out like that" he said, before Cullen could say anything "It was childish, I know, but…"

Marcus's voice tailed off and Cullen swallowed hard before speaking, his throat tight and dry

"The things I said, I didn't mean to imply that I don't trust you; or that I think all Mages are automatically a danger. It's just that with so many of the rebels joining us at once, I have concerns. I should have expressed them less violently though."

Marcus paused in his cleaning of the blade. Cullen had never yet spoken of his experiences during the Blight and Cassandra had not said anything directly, but there had been enough hints for him to have worked out why the former Templar was cautious around Mages.

"But we are dangerous, Cullen, and you know that all too well. I heard rumours about what happened to the Templars at Kinloch Hold and I'm guessing the reality was far worse. I'm not blaming you for your reaction but, after everything that happened, to have you and Cassandra jumping down my throat like that before I could explain…"

He took a deep breath, focussing on wiping the last of the dust and dirt from the sword in an attempt to stop his hands shaking

"I've seen the future, or at least what happens if we lose; not just to us, to everyone. Ferelden, Orlais, Tevinter, the Free Marches, the whole world. We can't fail, because if we do…"

Cullen shuddered, nightmare memories creeping through him.

"But what you saw, it wasn't real"

_It's not real, it can't be real… Please, Maker, don't let this be happening to me…_

Marcus slipped the sword back into its sheath and laid it down beside him. His eyes stared ahead at the frozen lake, haunted by recollection of everything he'd experienced. If it hadn't been for Dorian being there, he could have tried to dismiss it all as a dream but it was real; as real as the conversation he was having with Cullen right now.

The sky gone, consumed by the Breach, the stench of death clinging to everything; a world waiting to die, with something worse than death creeping ever nearer, seeing what had happened to the people who trusted and depended on him…

"It's not happened yet, but everything I saw, everything they went through, was real. I saw the world torn apart, all my friends dead, dying, tortured… I felt this 'Elder One' coming, ancient and cruel, and it scares me. Even if we manage to seal the Breach,  _that's_  still out there and I know I'll have to face it…"

Cullen sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a deep guilt and regret over his words earlier. He'd reacted from the fear that still gnawed away at the marrow of his bones, letting that fear take over without giving the Herald the chance to explain

"Marcus, whatever or whoever this is, you don't have to face him alone, you have us…"

Marcus turned his face to him and Cullen saw the fear and doubt in the young man's eyes

"Do I? I have to be sure, Cullen, because I can't do this if you don't trust me. You're the one… the ones… who give me the strength to get through this. I can't change what happened before, but if I have a chance to stop this, to save the people I care about from going through that hell…"

_Blackwall, Vivienne and Varric; using the last of the strength in their decayed bodies to buy him and Dorian the time to re-open the portal…_

_Leliana, fuelled by pure rage; firing arrow after arrow until the demons tore her apart…_

_Cullen, nailed to that post; still living despite his flesh almost entirely consumed by cancer-like growths of Red Lyrium. The stink of rotting blood; the desperation in the faint, rasping voice 'Marc… please… end it…" One quick slash of the knife…_

_Aidhan struggling and howling as the men, who'd been his comrades a few days before, went about their brutal work with evident pleasure. The brown-haired Templar with cold, grey, sadistic eyes looming over him "Just a few names, Mage, and we can end all this…"_

Marcus gagged audibly, the bile rising in his throat, and he felt Cullen's arm around his shoulder.

"Herald… Marcus, forgive me! You bear a terrible burden and I've only made it heavier. Please, believe me when I tell you I trust you. I trust you with my life and should never have given you reason to doubt that. I will try never to do so again. I'll be beside you to the end… we all will"

Marcus shook his head with a dry laugh; Cullen looked and sounded so earnest and contrite, so determined to give his utmost, to always be something better than the man he'd been. He needed him, needed all of them, for what was to come. He'd got a sense of the real enemy they were fighting now, the one behind all of this, and whatever they faced at the Breach was only the beginning of the war ahead.

"The end's a long way off, Cullen, but somehow I feel better with you beside me" he spotted the bottle sitting on the bench "What's that?"

Cullen turned his head to look

"That? Varric gave it to me; say's it's something Blackwall makes…"

"Dragon's Piss?" Marcus laughed again "Pass it here then! If ever I needed a drink it's now!"

**_A little while later_ **

"No… no!" Cullen shook his head disapprovingly "Doing it wrong again, that's not how it goes!"

Marcus huffed and took another drink from the now almost empty bottle

"'S how we sing it in Ostwick…" he muttered. Cullen shook his head again, patting Marcus on the shoulder

"Not… not in Ostwick 'ny more, Marc. Anyway; 's a Fereld'n song so, listen…" He took a deep breath and lifted his head, his song echoing clear and loud in the crisp night air

' _You know Andraste's old mabari._

_He don't show up in the Chant…'_

"You there!" Came a sharp, angry, voice; which instantly mellowed as the speaker saw who he was addressing "I… I mean, excuse me; Commander… My Lord Herald…?"

Cullen and Marcus turned their attention, bleary-eyed, to the watchmen standing in front of them

"Wha' izzit, soldier?" Cullen growled "Mar… The Heral' 'n I are… are…"

"Talkin' strategy… ain't that right, Cull?" Marcus slurred helpfully.

The watchmen glanced at each other nervously and then back to the two large, heavily intoxicated, men staring at them expectantly. One of them finally found his voice.

"We… er… we had a report of a couple of drunks making a disturbance, My Lords. Have… have you seen or heard anything?"

"Not… not a thing, soldier. Carry on." Cullen waved his hand at them magnanimously

"Yes… well… erm. Would you like to continue your… strategy meeting… indoors, my Lords? It is getting cold… and late."

Marcus nodded sagely

"Good… good idea! Don' wanna catch cold!" He stood, unsteadily, hauling Cullen up with him "C'mon Cull! 'S long past your bedtime 'n we don' want Auntie Cassandra getting' cross!"

Cullen grumbled something incoherent, leaning heavily on Marcus as the two men stumbled down the path aided by the watchmen who saw them safely, and without any further singing, to their respective quarters.

"Well…" The older of the two watchmen exhaled heavily, looking at his companion "We'd better go see if we can find those drunks!"

 


	4. In Your Hearts Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***MAJOR SPOILER ALERT***  
> This story is set immediately during the episode ‘In Your Hearts Shall Burn’ and therefore contains numerous references to the events in that episode of the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alert***  
> Strong language, potential character death  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed.  
> This is the first time I’ve written for Cole so I REALLY hope I’ve managed to capture it effectively.

**The story so far…**

**Aided by the allied Mages, the Herald of Andraste succeeds in sealing the Breach in the sky but victory is short lived.  As Marcus feared, the enemy behind the scenes is swift to reveal his hand.  Haven’s celebrations are interrupted by the approach of a massive army of Templars, made deformed and monstrous by Red Lyrium, and pledged to the service of the Elder One Corypheus; an ancient Tevinter magister who attempted to become a God but instead became darkspawn and brought the First Blight.**

**Led by Sampson, a former comrade of Cullen’s from Kirkwall, the force advances upon the poorly defended town; intent on massacre.  With Cullen defending the walls, Marcus leads the Inquisition troops; holding back the Templars long enough for the trebuchets to bring a cataclysmic avalanche down upon the attacker. Despite this, for a second time, victory is ripped from their grasp as Corypheus unleashes his deadliest weapon; an arch-demon in the form of a dragon which destroys the south trebuchet before they can completely overwhelm the Templar army, and unleashes a firestorm of destruction on Haven.**

**Fighting every inch of the way, the survivors fall back to the Chantry and plan a suicidal last stand; one that will bring the mountain down upon the Templars but also bury Haven and everyone left alive in it.  Grand Chancellor Roderick, dying from his wounds, reveals there is a way they can survive; an old pilgrim path through the mountains, along which the townsfolk and the Inquisition can escape if the enemy is held back long enough.**

**Marcus has one chance to save his friends, and the people who now look to him as their leader, but the cost may be his own life…**

**9:40 Dragon; the Massacre at Ostwick Circle Tower**

“The Templars have gone mad, they’re killing everyone; rebel or not”

Flames belched from the clerestory windows, the entire south range was on fire; loud cracks and bangs from the Alchemists tower as potion ingredients exploded, hints of burning leather and vellum as the inferno consumed irreplaceable volumes of lore in the library. First Enchanter Raymon ran his hand over his face, streaked with tears and soot.  Nothing in the Tower was being spared, not even the Chantry.  With Knight Commander Durward dead, Knight Captain Herrick had invoked the Rite of Annulment, on no authority but his own; sentencing every Mage in Ostwick, from the oldest Enchanter to the youngest Apprentice, to death.

A handful of the surviving Magi, Aequitarians who had tried to seek the way of compromise and keep the Circle from falling into the pit of Rebellion, had found temporary sanctuary in this corner of the cloister garden as the fighting raged throughout the buildings. Like many who value reason and common sense in a time of madness they found themselves the target of both sides.  It could only be a matter of minutes before they were discovered and slaughtered with the rest. 

Marcus thought quickly, crisis giving speed and clarity to his mind; there was still a chance some of them could escape. He pointed across at the still undamaged range on the north side of the cloister

“You can get out through the undercroft of the Harrowing Hall, the old passage down to the river…” he pulled the signet ring from his little finger, pressing it into the first Enchanter’s hand “Take this to Revered Mother Simona at Somerberg Chantry.  She’s a friend of my Great-Aunt Lucille, she’ll give you sanctuary and get word to my father.”

“But the Templars...” Raymon began.  Pursuit would be implacable.  Herrick was a fanatic, convinced that the Terynir of Ostwick and its Circle of Magi were breeding grounds of corruption and depravity; resentful of the easy, liberal regime that had prevailed.

“Let me and Marc deal with them” Aidhan insisted.  The young Templar had taken up sword against his brothers to protect the loyalists from the wholesale massacre.  He had no illusions about what his, or Marcus’s, fate would be but he was sworn to protect the innocent and that vow carried no exemption in his eyes. He glanced at the tiny huddle of survivors, most of them elderly or injured “Get them to safety, let the Teryn and the Grand Cleric know what’s happening before it’s too late.”

“Aidhan... Marcus... Don’t do this, I beg you…” There was anguish in the First Enchanter eyes.  So many dear and valued friends and colleagues had perished today; Lydia, Durward, Kathryn... He couldn’t bear the thought of these two fine young men sacrificing themselves in a hopeless fight.

“Raymon, please...” Marcus urged him “We’ll make them pay for every good soul they’ve taken from us.”

The first Enchanter didn’t hesitate any longer.  He embraced both men

“Andraste preserve you and keep you from harm!”

Gathering the terrified survivors, twittering like frightened birds, Raymon shepherded them towards the escape route while Marcus and Aidhan positioned themselves at the cloister doors, already beginning to splinter under the assault of axes and swords.

“Ready, Marc?” Aidhan asked, battle fury glinting in his dark green eyes

Marcus nodded, hefting his staff as the thick oak panels started to give.

“Ready as I’ll ever be... Let’s make some fucking noise!”

  **9:41 Dragon; The Fall of Haven**

“Bull, I need you and the Chargers to protect the rear.  Pick up the stragglers and deal with any of the Red Templars that get past us.  Fiona, Dorian and Solas will help the remaining Battle Mages protect the flanks.”

“Sure thing, Boss.  We’ll make sure no one gets left behind.” The giant Qunari rumbled “You do know you’re on a suicide mission, right? Just want to point that out in case you weren’t certain.”

“Wouldn’t be my first one!” Marcus grinned, shaking The Iron Bull’s hand “It’s been an honour to fight alongside the Bull’s Chargers.”

“Honour’s all ours, Boss!  Make those bastards pay for this!”

The Iron Bull moved through the chantry, gathering his men as the Inquisition soldiers mustered the last of the townsfolk towards the escape route Grand Chancellor Roderick had told them about.  The old cleric might have been a pompous fool, but he was a brave one and had given them a chance to survive.

Those who could walk helped those who couldn’t.  The sick, the injured, those too young or too old to make it by themselves; no one was being abandoned.  He’d known plenty of lords who wouldn’t have given a shit about saving anyone other than the high command and the nobles.  It was why he liked the Boss, he wasn’t going to let any of his people fall into the hands of those _creatures_.  He was going to miss that crazy red-headed fucker…

###

“I’ve just got one order for you...”

Marcus looked around the friends and companions joining him for this last insane battle.  Blackwall, testing the edge of his sword, Sera restringing her bow, Varric making a few final calibrations to Bianca, Vivienne checking her mascara in a hand-held mirror; that strange, squirrely boy, Cole with his knives ready. Six of them against an army of monstrously deformed Templars, an arch-demon and the Darkspawn ‘Elder One’ who led them.  It was madness but, for what he had planned, a small group might just have the better chance

“...once we get the trebuchet turned and aimed, you fall back; get clear.  I’ll wait for Cullen’s signal”

“Maker’s Balls! You can’t expect us to leave you!” Blackwall protested “Not with that thing out there!”

Marcus shook his head

“You must! It’s me he wants. On my own I have the best chance of keeping his attention from what we’re doing and, besides...” he grinned wickedly “I don’t want to be worrying about saving your sorry arses as well”

Blackwall nodded grimly.  He didn’t like the idea, but this was the Heralds plan, maybe the only chance for anyone to survive. They couldn’t afford to fuck this up.

“That’s the last of them moving out now, we’ll signal you as soon as we’re above the treeline” Cullen informed Marcus.  The commander looked strained and pale, anxiety and determination etched into his face.  He took the Herald’s hand and their eyes met, Cullen fought back the urge to beg Marcus to change his mind, not to do this… to let him stand in his place and find atonement in death. “If we are to have a chance... If _you_ are to have a chance... let that thing hear you!”

“Take care of them, Cull...” Marcus said, quietly so the others couldn’t hear “Maker go with you”

“And also with you…” Cullen nodded briefly and left, setting the lion helm on his head so the men wouldn’t see the tears in his eyes. Marcus took a deep breath to push down the fear that threatened to close his throat and turned to his friends, bowing gracefully to Vivienne

“My Lady Vivienne, will you join me in this dance?”

The Imperial Enchanter responded with a curtsey of equal elegance

“Certainly, my Lord Trevelyan, let us lead these beasts in a courante they will never forget!”

“Bloody nobles!” grinned Blackwall, kicking open the chantry doors.  A blast of chill air, and the dull roar of the approaching enemy greeted them.  Marcus cracked the butt of his staff off the flagstones, sparks whirling about its tip

_Though all before me is darkness, yet shall the Maker be my guide…_

“Let’s make some fucking noise!”

**A day and a half later: Somewhere in the Frostback Mountains.**

“We should’ve gone back for him!”  Blackwall stared, red eyed into the fire around which they sat; trying to get some warmth into their bones. “We shouldn’t have left him.”

“He gave us an order, he knew what he was doing.” Varric looked up at the pass through which they’d struggled the night before.  Corypheus? Shit… That couldn’t be possible, Hawke had killed him, but there he’d been; ten feet tall, crystals of red lyrium glinting in his withered torso, striding through the flames towards Marcus as the young Mage struggled to his feet.  The last glimpse he got, as they hauled Blackwall away was Marcus picked up by one arm, dangling from the Darkspawn’s hand like a rag doll. 

“Fuck orders! We should’ve gone back… He was a good man, the best I’ve known” Blackwall’s voice cracked “He didn’t deserve to die like that… alone…”

Even if Corypheus or the archdemon hadn’t torn him apart, there was no way Marcus could have survived the wave of rock and ice that surged down over Haven.  Blackwall cursed inwardly… he’d run… like a coward… like the last time; leaving a brave and honourable man, a man who’d called him ‘friend’, who’d given him a sense of purpose, leaving him to meet a terrible death with no-one to stand alongside him.  Orders be damned, he should have gone back…

Cullen, and a few inquisition scouts had been waiting just above the treeline while the bulk of the refugees moved on to find safety and shelter.  The look on that man’s face when he realised Marcus wasn’t with them; Blackwall never wanted to see that again.

Hundreds of people huddled under makeshift tents and around fires but, apart from the faint sounds of pain and grief, a shocked silence lay over the camp.  Clerics and Mages, former Templars and hired mercenaries, Orlesian aristocrats and Fereldan peasants, humans, dwarves and elves; none of the differences mattered right now.  All they had, all that united them, was sorrow and the question ‘what now?’

“Ain’t fair… the good ones always get killed; in stories and in real life. Ain’t fair…” they’d almost forgotten about Sera.  The normally mouthy girl curled around her private misery under a scrap of blanket.  She stared defiantly at Varric, eyes wet and nose dripping “When you write about him, you’d better bloody include his stupid jokes… you can trust a man who makes stupid jokes.”

Varric sighed heavily

“I’ll include the stupid jokes, Buttercup,” he promised her “and the farting, and the way he couldn’t do a Fereldan accent for shit…”

“You’d better…” she warned him, tugging the blanket tighter round her shoulders “or I’ll fucking jab you one!”

###

Near the centre of the camp, Cullen stared down at the maps spread out across the backboard of a cart, trying to force a strategy out of his brain as Cassandra, Josephine and Leliana continued to argue.  The lines on the paper blurred into meaningless squiggles in front of his eyes and he pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples, growling as pain stabbed through his head.  Ryland, or one of the other former Templars would be sure to have some. If not, then even the diluted mixture the Mages used might give him a little relief. Yes, he had to; there was no other choice.

He tightened his cloak against the gathering chill of evening and felt the pin Marcus had given him as a birthday gift just those few weeks ago; the first one he’d been given since childhood…

_If it’s any comfort, Cull, I think you’re strong enough to do this…_

No-one else, not even Varric, would ever have the audacity to call him ‘Cull’.  He’d never hear that voice again; the ever-present hints of affectionate mockery in that rich, deep, lilting Ostwick accent.  He’d never play chess with him late into the evening, share a bottle of good wine, or train with him again in the sharp, pre-dawn air.  Marcus had believed in him, he couldn’t betray that faith…

Cullen swallowed hard and turned back to the maps, trying to ignore the red-hot shards of need digging into the back of his neck.  He rubbed at his eyes, raw and sore from the biting winds

_Andraste, carry him safe to the Maker’s side… Forgive me… I should have told him…_

The Templar was quiet but his pain was so loud.  Cole crouched, unseen, on a box nearby; head cocked, listening, searching, trying to find a place where he could begin to help... 

_So much hurt… so much need… fear and hatred and grief all knotted together. Great, red, wet streaks where the demons hurt him, wounds and gashes that no-one could see.  They hadn’t believed him afterwards, not really, that’s why they’d sent him away to somewhere just as bad; where fear made him cruel and the cruelty made him hate himself even more..._

Every time Cole tried to undo a tangle it just tightened somewhere else; making it hurt, making it sharp, making Cullen want the cool blue lyrium release even more. Only the red-haired mage with the voice like music had loosened it a little…

_I should have told him why we couldn’t be more than friends… I wanted more, but I was afraid…  I wasn’t ready… too late now…_

Voices of hurt weaving and winding together like snakes in a basket, coiling round each other; always moving, one leading to the next. The quiet Templar’s pain touching another voice, almost too faint even for Cole to hear and the boy listened hard to catch it

_Cold… biting and slicing like the knives… breathing hurts… arm feels wrong… feet hardly moving… One step, then another, how many more?  I’m trying to be strong, Aidh… like I promised, but I’m tired and it hurts so much...  Just want to sleep but if I lie down I’ll die.  Maker, I’m so tired… Please, Andraste… let them be safe… let him be safe…_

Cole leaned towards Cullen, his whisper hardly more than a breath carried on the wind

_“He’s still alive.”_

###

Blackwall looked up from the fire as Cullen came running towards them; Cassandra and a couple of the Inquisition scouts following behind. He lumbered to his feet, grabbing his sword

“What is it? Another attack?”

Cullen shook his head

“We’re going back, there’s a chance…” he paused to gulp a breath “There’s a chance Marcus could have survived.”

“The whole mountainside came down” Varric objected “Cullen, Haven’s completely gone. There’s no way…”

“The old tunnels under Haven, cut by the Disciples of Andraste” Cassandra interrupted, her tone harsher and more impatient than usual. It was the slimmest of chances, but still held out a ray of hope “One of them had an opening near the north trebuchet.  If he made it to that…”

“It’s a big ‘if’, Seeker” Varric shrugged “But hey! I didn’t have any plans for the evening anyway…”

###

The snow above the pass was deep, almost to the top of Cullen’s boots, nearly obliterating the tracks made by the refugees from Haven. This was a mixed blessing, hiding their trail from any pursuit but making the search for Marcus almost impossible.  Cullen could feel the muscles in his thighs and calves beginning to ache already, his hopes withering as the pain grew.  If it was this difficult for him after only a couple of hours; how could Marcus, lost and probably injured, ever have made it this far? He wasn’t ready to give up yet. He wouldn’t give up, even if it meant trekking all the way back to Haven on his own. He owed it to Marcus, to the Herald, to find him alive or dead.  Even if they were too late, he wouldn’t leave his body to the mercy of the predators. He deserved better than that.

He began running, or at least stumbling faster, the moment he heard Scout Ritts’s whistle. He saw where she was pointing, a darker shape prone against the snow; something that could be mistaken for a boulder by less perceptive eyes.

_Maker, please, don’t let it be too late_

Marcus lay immobile, one arm twisted under him, a thin dusting of snow over his body.  He couldn’t have been lying here for long otherwise it would have covered him completely

_Please, please, please… Marc, don’t be dead… stay with me… don’t let me be too late!_

Blood crusted around a wound in his scalp and a long gash on his leg, there was no way to tell what other injuries Marcus had suffered and Cullen turned the young man over carefully, wrapping his thickly furred cloak around him, pulling him close in the desperate hope of transferring vital heat to the inert form; scarcely aware of the others joining him

“Maker!” Blackwall gasped “is he...?”

“I don’t know!” barked Cullen, anxiety sharpening his voice.  He tugged off a glove with his teeth and carefully felt along the cold skin of the Mage's throat.  There! Under his searching fingers, just the faintest thread of a pulse “He’s alive! Only just, but he’s alive!”

“Maker be praised!” Cassandra exclaimed, pulling out the flask Mother Giselie had given her “Here... Quickly!”

“It’s a miracle!” Scout Ritts’s eyes burned with the flame of rekindled faith “He _is_ the Chosen of Andraste.  She brought him back from death; saved him from the Archdemon just like She saved him at the Temple. She hasn’t forsaken us!”

Let’s get him back to camp alive and then decide if it’s a miracle, thought Cassandra, although she said nothing.  After what they had seen and been through, a little hope from any source was welcome.  No doubt Leliana would exploit this for maximum benefit.

Cullen carefully eased the neck of the flask between Marcus’s stiff blue lips, letting a few drops of the cordial trickle into his mouth then rubbing his throat to make him swallow. ‘Only a little at a time’ Mother Giselle had cautioned ‘If there is even a spark of life left, this will strengthen it’

It may just have been Cullen’s imagination, but an eyelid seemed to flicker and a faint gasp of breath escaped Marcus’s lips. He poured a few drops more and this time Marcus swallowed on his own, the muscles of his face twitching into a barely perceptible grimace. Cullen’s heart was pounding in his chest; Marcus was alive… the Maker had heard his prayer, they had a chance… _he_ had a chance…

“Maker be praised! Marcus, can you hear me?  It’s Cull... It’s Cullen!”

“Cull...?” it was no more than a whisper followed by a low moan of protest as the barely conscious man attempted to nestle deeper into the commander’s arms, burying his face into the warm fur lining of the cloak wrapped around him “Tired... Lemme sleep...”

“Red always hates getting woken up” choked Varric, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“No! No sleeping, not yet, it’s not safe to sleep yet” Cullen shook him back to semi waking, making him drink some more “We’re taking you home. You can sleep there...  Blackwall, help me get him on the stretcher.”

“Yeah... wan’ go home, Cull...” mumbled Marcus, still covered by Cullen’s cloak “Tired...”

Even taking turns with the stretcher it was a long, hard, trek back; Varric sustaining a constant grumbling narrative the way only he could, doing his best to keep Marcus hovering on the right side of consciousness until they got him to the healers.  Cullen could see Vivienne, Josephine and Leliana waiting anxiously at the edge of the camp, the women running towards them as soon as they came into view. The commander steeled himself for a long and difficult night.  The days ahead would be hard, testing them to the limit but, against all the odds, Marcus had survived and that gave them hope.  Where that hope would lead them, perhaps tomorrow would tell.

###

_By attacking the Inquisition, Corypheus has changed it; changed you…  Scout to the north, be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build and grow… Skyhold!_

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Shadows of our pasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Mild Spoiler Alert***  
> The Inquisition has found a new home; the massive fortress of Skyhold, deep in the Northern Frostbacks. Undaunted by the losses at Haven, and with a new-found unity of purpose, the leaders of the Inquisition begin to plan the long and arduous campaign to defeat Corypheus and his forces; new alliances must be forged and territories stabilised. Recovered from his injuries, the newly acclaimed Lord Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan must once again take the lead in tracking and destroying the enemy who threatens all of Southern Thedas with destruction.  
> Varric reveals that he and his friend Hawke have faced Corypheus before. Hawke, the former Champion of Kirkwall, informs Marcus of a Grey Warden who may have more information about their enemy and the mysterious disappearance of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden and Orlais. Valuable though this information is; the presence of Hawke and the identity of the Warden are an unwelcome reminder of the darkest periods of Cullen’s past, already stirred up by the re-appearance of his former comrade, Sampson, at Corypheus’s side. The Commander is forced, yet again, to confront his demons and his own role in provoking the crisis they now face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alert***  
> Strong language, references to past torture/trauma. Some very mild homo-eroticism  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed.

**9:37 Dragon: Willowberg Keep, Terynir of Ostwick: Ancestral seat of House Trevelyan.**

“Maker! I can hardly breathe in this!” Aidhan choked, the stiff collar felt like it would cut his throat if he turned his head too quickly.  Marcus laughed and began unfastening it.

“That’s because it’s not supposed to be closed all the way up!” He continued undoing the gold clasps until the tunic was half open, then partly unlaced the linen shirt beneath “It’s the latest style from Antiva…”

“Oh, Antiva, of course!” Aidhan playfully cuffed Marcus round the back of the head “I should have remembered the Knight-Commander’s announcement at Morning Orders.”

Marcus had obviously had these made specially for the Templar to wear on this visit to the Trevelyan family’s castle in the hills to the north of Ostwick City.  Aside from his armour, Aidhan’s wardrobe consisted of a few functional shirts, breeches and tunics; none of which were suitable for the occasion.  Mages were only supposed to leave the Circle on official business, or under special circumstances with the permission of the First Enchanter and the license of the Knight Commander, but generally greater freedom was given to Mages of wealthy or influential families and the definition of ‘special circumstances’ was extremely vague. 

The 80th birthday celebrations of Lady Lucille Emmeline de Vasari-Cousland Trevelyan, matriarch of House Trevelyan and undisputed queen of Free Marcher high society definitely counted.  The Ostwick Circle was not as lax as Dairsmuid, where Mages reputedly came and went at will, but a well born Mage in good standing like Marcus was able to move more or less freely; with the correct permission and a Templar escort of course. 

Marcus finished adjusting Aidhan’s tunic and shirt to reveal a broad vee of well-muscled, lightly haired, chest and carefully positioned the silver medallion of Andraste so it sat precisely in the middle.  The Mage’s own outfit consisted of a tightly laced brocade waistcoat and richly embroidered sleeveless silk shirt, leaving his powerful arms bare and emphasising the breadth of his shoulders.

“That’s a pilgrimage I’ll be making later” murmured Marcus, with suspiciously tender devotion, as he bent his head and kissed the glittering image.

“Isn’t this a bit, well… revealing?” Aidhan asked, feeling suddenly anxious.  The blacksmith’s son from Tantervale had been a welcome guest at Willowberg Keep, and the family’s mansion in Ostwick City, many times; but never an occasion as grand as this, with noble guests from as far away as Orlais, Antiva and Ferelden.  Ostwick, rich and sophisticated, looked north to glittering Antiva for its fashions and manners; Templar training didn’t exactly include this and he was afraid of embarrassing himself or, worse, Marcus in front of such a distinguished gathering.

“It’s positively modest, the breeches are barely skin-tight!” Marcus ruffled Aidhan’s close-cropped black hair fondly “The only one you have to worry about is Great-Aunt Lucy and she’ll love you.  I’m not the only one in the family with a weakness for handsome Templars…”

Aidhan’s ears were instinctively alert to the buzz of pre-dinner conversation in the Grand Salon as he followed Marcus through the crowd of guests.  Templars were trained to be aware of their surroundings at all time, aided by the clarity of perception granted by Lyrium, and he found himself remembering a pool near his family’s home that the local children were warned to avoid.  It looked placid on the surface, but perilous currents swirled beneath the apparent calm.  The nobility might be at play but, with the troubles in Kirkwall and abroad, the political stability of the Free Marches was dangerously fragile.

“…from Vyrantium; darling, it’s like air against your skin…”

“…just has to bide his time. Celene has no heir and, well…”

“…blessed by the Divine herself…”

“…wouldn’t have retreated so easily if there wasn’t a motive…”

“…hardly worth the trip, hunting’s dreadful up there…”

“…doesn’t have the authority; but with the Viscount dead…”

“And who are you, young man? A Contini? A de Charneray?”

Aidhan found himself being scrutinised by a minute, elderly, woman in brilliant silks; enthroned in a wheeled armchair and surrounded by a horde of obsequious relations.  She brandished a gold-rimmed lorgnette in one hand while the other clasped a foul-smelling Qunari cheroot. Despite her age, Lady Lucille’s blue eyes were bright and sharp.  She presented a wrinkled, powdered, cheek for Marcus to kiss

“Great-Aunt; this is my friend, Ser Aidhan Dunseyre.”

“Oho! A Templar…” Lady Lucille chortled, taking a draw on her cigar and blowing out a cloud of smoke, “Here to restrain Marcus if he misbehaves?”

“Lord Marcus is always a model of propriety, Lady Lucille, I assure you…” Aidhan laughed; the old woman winked at him and cocked her head in Marcus’s direction

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same Marcus Trevelyan? Red hair, ridiculous moustache, incorrigible show-off?”

“My moustache is not ridiculous, Auntie!” Marcus huffed, instinctively raising a hand to stroke his well-trimmed and curled facial hair.

“…Teagan will be waiting in the shadows, he always resented…”

“…only three more nights; Marlon can get tickets…”

“…over there, the Lord Chancellor’s messenger…”

Aidhan’s trained ear caught a shifting in the buzz and flow of conversation as Marcus continued to banter with his Great-Aunt; something nervous and agitated in the air, men in messenger uniforms moving through the guests

“…not possible! That could never…”

“…Vashanti Kavass!”

“…the Grand Cleric, and half the Revered Mothers…”

“Bienheureuse Andraste! Dit à Girard de commencer à emballer…”

“… burning all the way to the harbour…”

“What on earth is going on?” Lady Lucille exclaimed petulantly, craning her neck to see what was causing the commotion “Where’s Lewin? I’m getting hungry…”

Marcus looked up to see his older brother Johan, Champion of Ostwick, coming towards them, his face strained and pale

“Jo, what’s happening?” his mind latched on the most likely threat “Is it the Qunari?”

Johan shook his head, grimly, even in formal dress the Trevelyan heir looked ready for battle.

“There’s open war in Kirkwall between the Templars and the Mages, Templars fighting Templars as well.  They say an apostate destroyed the Chantry; half the city’s in flames...”

“Maker’s Mercy!” Marcus gasped “Any word of Alysanne?”

Johan swallowed, his throat tightening

“There’s a message from Lord Redbank.  Father wants to speak to you in the Library…”

**9:4I Dragon; Skyhold**

“Yes, Inquisitor; is there something I can help you with?” Cullen scarcely glanced up from the reports in front of him as Marcus entered the office.  The Commander looked pale and haggard, dark circles under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept properly in days.

“I have a nicely matured Val Chevin Red you can help me with” Marcus said cheerfully, holding up the bottle he’d procured “and we haven’t played chess since before the assault on the Breach.  You could do with a break.”

“There is still too much business to attend to… troop allocations… repairs to the defences… bolstering our positions outside Skyhold” Cullen’s attention remained fixed on the paperwork in front of him “I would not be very good company at the moment.  Perhaps Lord Dorian might prove more _congenial_?”

“Dorian cheats, it takes all the fun out winning…” Marcus replied, choosing to ignore the implication of Cullen’s words and scrutinising his friend closely; the man’s hands were steady and he appeared in control of himself, but this remote coldness of manner was unsettling.  Cullen had been increasingly shut off and withdrawn ever since Hawke arrived; scarcely leaving his quarters except for Inquisition business. It hadn’t escaped the new Lord Inquisitor’s notice that the Commander’s quarters in the Gate Tower, while practical, were remote from the other occupied areas of the castle; allowing him to isolate himself in a way that hadn’t been possible in Haven.

He could, of course, order Cullen to stop working and get some rest but that would do nothing to penetrate this barrier he seemed determined to erect.  Leliana was right; it was time to take the lead. 

“This business with Sampson and Corphyeus disturbs me…” Marcus saw the slight tensing in Cullen’s shoulders at the mention of the former Templar’s name. “You knew the man, I would appreciate your assessment of his possible motives”

Cullen hesitated, his hand straying to the back of his neck; a familiar nervous gesture, often mimicked, but on close inspection Marcus could see it looked as if the man were trying to loosen or unfasten something tied around his throat.  Cassandra had called Lyrium a ‘leash’ which the leaders of the Order had used to control the Knights.

“We were… We shared quarters when I first arrived in Kirkwall.  Knight Commander Meredith expelled him for having an affair with a Mage… The last I heard, he was on the streets; thieving and begging to supply himself with Lyrium…” Cullen shook his head slightly and the barrier, which had begun to slip, was back in place. “I will prepare a full report for the Council tomorrow, my Lord; now, if you will excuse me?

“Of course, you’re clearly very busy.  My apologies for disturbing you.” Marcus responded with cool formality.  Cullen nodded briefly and Marcus turned to go. At the door, he paused “By the way, I’ve asked Ser Hawke to join the advance party to Crestwood; he leaves with Harding and the scouts at First Light.  It should give us an edge in trying to locate this Warden friend of his.”

Whatever response Cullen made was lost as the door banged shut.  Walking along the ramparts in the still, cold, evening air; Marcus resisted the urge to hurl the bottle of wine against the wall with all his strength. It was too good to waste in a fit of pique.  Perhaps he should seek out Dorian’s more _congenial_ company, as Cullen had suggested, but he was in no mood for the verbal jousting match that would involve or for sidestepping the Tevinter’s sly attempts to get him into bed.  If he wanted a fuck there were plenty of options, male and female, that came with far fewer complications.

Varric and the others would be in the Herald’s Rest; but so would Hawke, and Marcus had no desire to spend more time than necessary with the former Champion of Kirkwall.  He might be Varric’s friend and a potentially useful ally but beyond that there was little of any use they had to say to each other.  He glanced down at the bottle in his hand.

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight…”

He turned at the sound of footsteps behind him to see Cullen approaching; an anxious, concerned, expression on his face

“Marcus, forgive me…  Back there, I was…”

“You were a fucking prick, Cull…” Marcus could feel his anger and frustration boiling over “The past couple of weeks have been hell for all of us, but if I’ve done something to piss you off I’d really prefer if you told me rather than blocking me out and telling me to go fuck Dorian!  I don’t ask for much out of our friendship; but I think after nearly getting my arm ripped out it’s socket by a giant fucking Darkspawn Magister, and almost being buried under a mountainside, I maybe deserve a little more than that!”

Cullen swallowed, not entirely surprised by the vehemence of Marcus’s response. 

“You’ve done nothing to offend me, and those things I said… they were inappropriate, disrespectful.  Could you please come back for a few minutes so we can talk… so I can explain?”

For a moment, Marcus was tempted to tell Cullen to shove his explanation up his arse but the man looked highly agitated and increasingly distressed.  The wall he’d been building for the past days hadn’t just cracked, it had collapsed completely.  He took a deep breath to calm himself down

“Okay, Cullen, let’s go talk…”

Back in Cullen’s office, Marcus made himself comfortable in the big, overstuffed, armchair while Cullen paced the floor; speaking rapidly in nervous, broken sentences

“I promised myself, after what you did at Haven, that I would be completely open with you about my past...  I haven’t kept that promise, I… I didn’t imagine how hard it would be to speak about these things…”

He paused, staring out of the window at the camp fires on the plain below; hiding the deep flush of shame that crept into his cheeks

“I was the one who reported Sampson to Knight-Commander Meredith.  It was my action that got him expelled… do you have any idea what it’s like for a Templar to be expelled from the Order? You’re cut off from your brothers and sisters, from the Chantry; from Lyrium.  You’re worse than nothing; an outcaste, the lowest of the low.  I did it… I did it because I was jealous, and afraid, but I told myself it was the right thing to do, that the Order had to remain pure of all corruption.  I had to prove myself you see, to show that I wouldn’t tolerate any laxity.  Not everyone believed me about Kinloch Hold; that’s why I was sent to Kirkwall, it was a punishment for my weakness...”

Marcus sat forward, brows furrowing.  Now that he considered it, a Templar was rarely assigned to a foreign commandery.  Transfers between commanderies in the Free Marches weren’t that unusual, but technically the various city-states formed a single loose confederation and only a few like Kirkwall, Markham and Ostwick were large enough to support circles and commanderies of any size. 

He’d assumed Cullen had been posted to Kirkwall to recover from what had happened at Kinloch Hold, although Kirkwall Circle had never had the reputation of being a particularly therapeutic environment.  Lydia had held it up as an example of why Divine Justinia’s proposed reform of the Circles was essential.  The notion of Cullen’s transfer being punitive hadn’t occurred to him but made a certain, brutal, sense.

“What do you mean, they didn’t believe you?”

Cullen turned, the candles by the window had burned low and his face was lost in shadows but the anguish in his voice was expressive enough

“All the time I was trapped there, I kept telling myself it wasn’t real… the things that were done to me… things they made me do… none of it was real; it was the only way I could hold on to the last scraps of my sanity.  You’d think it would be a comfort to be told by my superiors ‘It was all just illusions and blood magic’ but that made it worse.  Everything I suffered, all that I saw and went through; they acted like it never happened… I could see in their eyes they thought I was lying, that I’d submitted, surrendered to the abominations to save myself.  They couldn’t prove it, so they sent me to Kirkwall.  Maybe… maybe I was lying… maybe I did give in and go mad, and this is still all just part of the nightmare…”

Cullen slumped against the wall as he spoke, slowly sliding down until he was hunched on the floor, head buried in his hands.  Marcus got up and crouched beside him; the man was shaking all over, mentally and physically reliving his ordeal.  He reached out and gently touched his shoulder, speaking softly and carefully

“Cull… Just because it wasn’t physical doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.  When I faced that Desire Demon in my Harrowing, every minute of it was terrifyingly real; no less than if it were in the physical world.  If I’d failed, and become possessed, then the consequences would have been very real indeed...”

On an impulse, moved by the need to give more than verbal comfort, Marcus carded his fingers though Cullen’s hair. With a small, choking, sob, the former Templar moved his head into the touch; like a cat being stroked

“What happened to you was as real as what happened to me; and you resisted…  you didn’t give in… I know what that costs”

Cullen looked up at him, his cheeks wet with tears

“People can see your scars…”

Marcus sighed, and smiled sadly.  The reality of his ordeal was evident every time he stripped, but his physical injuries had healed.  Cullen didn’t have that dubious comfort.  For both of them, the hidden wounds were still raw, aching, and only someone who had suffered the same pain could ever understand that.

“Cull, I see yours every time I look into your eyes.”

The Commander, still hunched on the floor, cleared his throat and continued his confession.  After denouncing Sampson, he’d rapidly risen to become Knight Captain; Knight Commander Meredith’s right-hand man and most trusted champion, harsh and inflexible.  Feared and hated by Mages and other Templars for his unbending severity and brutal justice.

He heard the rumours about the abuses, the misuse of Tranquillity, the crimes that were being committed; and he dismissed them as lies, a crude attempt to discredit the Order by malcontents, libertarians, atheists and freethinkers.  The Seekers of Truth had come and judged that Meredith’s strictness was right and justified.  She set an example that the degenerate Circles of Markham and Ostwick would be better advised to follow.  So, he closed his eyes and refused to admit what has happening in front of him until the day Kirkwall burned and he could no longer ignore her madness

“Maybe if I’d stood up to Meredith sooner she could have been stopped… things needn't have gone as far as they did… Anders might not have…”

Marcus shook his head emphatically, taking hold of Cullen’s hand.  Kirkwall had been rotten for years.  Falling apart in the way it did in 37 had surprised no-one; for some time the neighbouring states had eyed the situation nervously, fearing it foreshadowed further chaos; they just didn’t anticipate how widespread that chaos would be.  His mother’s last letter to Alysanne had begged her to come home and bring baby Balon to the safety and stability of Ostwick.  None of them knew if she ever received that letter… while the man who killed them and hundreds of other innocents still walked free somewhere.

“Anders was a criminal lunatic!  If Hawke had executed him, Justinia might still have found a way to restrain the Templars and prevent the Council of Enchanters voting on independence!  You can’t blame yourself for everything that happened in Kirkwall…”

Marcus was right, Cullen had to admit that, Kirkwall was so far gone that no one man could possibly have stopped the catastrophe happening at some point but other, better, men than him had seen what was happening and said ‘No’.  Perhaps if he had done the same, others would have found the courage to follow.

“I had a responsibility to those in my charge and I failed them; I let myself be ruled by fear and said it was strength… Now those failures are coming back to haunt me; all of them, not just Kirkwall…”

Marcus took the plunge

“You’re talking about Alistair, and the Hero of Ferelden?”

Cullen sighed heavily, nodding his head

“Leliana told you?  I thought she might. Alistair was my friend, before the Wardens recruited him, and Solona…? I… I cared for her, a boy’s infatuation… maybe in time it might have become something more but when they found me…  The things I said to her were cruel… repellent; things born out of fear and hatred and madness.  I never saw her, or Alistair, again…”

Leliana had hinted at this, but avoided details, torn between the need to inform Marcus while preserving some of the commander’s privacy. Marcus’s mind raced, considering the available options and strategies to help his friend avoid another potentially painful encounter

“Cullen… If it helps, I don’t have to bring Alistair back to Skyhold”

Cullen was briefly tempted by the offer, but Alistair was potentially too crucial an ally. He couldn’t...

“No!  You can’t let my past dictate Inquisition strategy.  He needs to come here if we’re to deal with the Warden problem effectively and…  and I need to confront this instead of running from it.  He and I were good friends once, I owe it to him”

Marcus began to stand up but Cullen caught him by the arm

“There is something… something I owe to you as well…” He hesitated but then the words came spilling out “I told you in Haven that I was only able to offer friendship, nothing more…  I wasn’t being completely honest.  Part of me wanted… needed…”

He paused, looking across at Marcus, his eyes wide and fearful; scarcely believing what he was allowing himself to say

“I don’t know if I’m capable of being close to anyone; I can’t bear the idea of… of letting someone get near to me again only to drive them away…  I didn’t even know if it would be possible for you and I to become friends; and yet now… now you are my _truest_ friend, in a way I could never have imagined...”

Cullen fell silent, shaking his head; when he spoke again it sounded more like he was thinking aloud

“No, no… you’re more than a friend, much more, and I’m ashamed I haven’t had the courage to say it sooner.  I know telling you this going to change things, Maker only knows how, but after what you did for us you deserve to hear the tru- _mpfh_!”

Cullen’s words were cut short by Marcus’s kiss, sudden and intense; a kiss he responded to hungrily, without thinking, the raw need to connect with someone who cared for him taking over

“Cull...!” Marcus stared at him, wide-eyed with shock at his audacity as their lips parted, he’d always promised himself to resist that urge “I’m sorry... that was...”

He was silenced by the commander grabbing him by the back of the neck and kissing him back, harder and deeper, until both men lost their balance, falling sideways against a bookcase and breaking into laughter; the first time Cullen had laughed in days, his face relaxing… appearing younger as they stood up and dusted themselves off.

“I’ve wanted to do that for longer that I should admit…” Cullen sounded shy, apprehensive, but there was a smile on his face and a gentleness in his eyes “and it was nice... Really nice.”

“I’ve wanted to do it since the first time we met.” Marcus confessed, stroking Cullen’s cheek “and it was just as good as I imagined.”

“Should we be doing this?” a hint of apprehension crept into Cullen’s voice “With everything that’s happening, everything that we face?”

“We probably shouldn’t...” Marcus agreed, “but after all we’ve been through, don’t you think we both deserve the chance of a little happiness?”

Cullen’s smile widened slightly and he held him a little bit tighter, bending his head to lightly brush his lips against Marcus’s.

“I think I owe you a game or two of chess” he said quietly, nodding in the direction of the board “and it would be wrong to let that wine go to waste...”

###

**A few days later**

“Okay, Dalish; why exactly am I here?” grumbled Varric. 

In the chill, grey, pre-dawn the last place he wanted to be was lurking behind the battlements of the Great Tower watching Cullen and Marcus freeze their balls of for the sake of training.  The two men had found an isolated corner of the ramparts where they could continue the early morning sparring sessions they’d enjoyed at Haven. Good for them, but the dwarf would rather be huddled under several layers of quilts until his head stopped pounding and it was time for lunch

“Cause, this is the only place where you can get a clear view” hissed the Elf “Now shut up, we don’t want ‘em to hear us”

The Dwarf pulled his coat tighter and grunted.

“Watching Red and Curly prancing about in their under-drawers, at this time of the morning, might tickle your codpiece but it’s doing nothing for my hangover”

Dalish glared at him, the kind of glare you could only get from an Elvhen mercenary who emphatically _isn’t_ an apostate mage.

“Shut up and wait for it” she insisted

Cullen intercepted Marcus’s blow using the hilt of his sword, disarming the Mage with a swift turn of his wrist. Undaunted, Marcus hooked his leg round the back of Cullen’s knee, using his shield to block, and sent the commander sprawling on his back.  Varric bit his lip to stop himself cheering, that was a pretty expert move.  For a Mage, the Inquisitor was a skilful, and sneaky, fighter.

Cullen was clearly laughing as Marcus helped him to his feet, that was an extraordinary enough sight in Varric’s book, but then the Commander of the Inquisition wrapped his arms around the Herald of Andraste and kissed him full on the mouth, a kiss that showed no sign of stopping until both men ran out of breath.  Varric’s jaw dropped

“Well... Shit!”

Dalish turned to him, grinning

“Bull says you owe him fifty Royals, he’ll accept coin or ale” 

 


	6. Connections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus’s encounter with an almost forgotten hero of the Fifth Blight leaves him wondering to what extent the events of the current war are bound up with what happened in Ferelden 11 years ago, and reflecting on the harsh reality of Thedosian politics; something the new Inquisition now deals with on an ever-increasing basis as its power and influence grows.  
> A ‘game of distractions’ leads the Lord Inquisitor and Commander Cullen further than either man intended, and takes their relationship to a new level of intensity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***SPOILER ALERTS***  
> This chapter takes place prior to any incursions into the Western Approach and may contain mild spoilers for that area of the game. There are also potential spoilers for Warden Blackwall’s story-arc in the prologue.  
> Major spoilers for one of the outcomes of the Landsmeet at Denerim in DA:O  
> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Strong language. Strong homo-eroticism (I would assess it as being an ‘HBO+’ level of explicitness)  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:30 Dragon: Ostwick Circle Tower**

“How is the boy?” Knight-Commander Durward joined Senior Enchanter Lydia by the fire and handed her a glass of wine.  She took it, and stared into the heart of the fire for a while, as if an explanation could be found deep in the glowing coals

“Confused, frightened and miserable” she replied, pausing to savour the aroma of the wine; Vivienne had sent it as a gift from the vineyards at Montsimmard “He still wants to believe this is all some terrible mistake.”

“I wish it were…” grunted Durward “We’ve lost a splendid Templar…”

Magical ability normally manifested early, around 8 or 9 years of age; the age the Chantry decreed to be ‘the beginning of moral responsibility’.  He’d run across a few cases of it emerging as late as 11 or 12, but never at 15; that was unheard of.  When the Novice Master had brought Marcus to him, and the youth nervously stammered out the strange dreams and phenomena he was experiencing, the Knight-Commander had initially assumed that one of the Knight-Recruits had slipped him something containing Lyrium.  It was not unknown for some of the more irresponsible to do that as a prank on an older Novice, but if true there would be grave consequences for the culprit.

Further investigation proved that it was no prank; the young Lord Marcus Trevelyan was clearly showing evidence of magical ability, strong ability at that, and this had stirred up a hornet’s nest.  Bann Lewin had at first been insistent it must be a mistake, magic did not run in his family’s bloodline; the last Trevelyan Mage had been First Enchanter Irina at the time of the Fourth Blight, four Ages ago.  Once convinced of the truth, he had set about trying to seek a dispensation from Divine Beatrix III to allow his son to continue Templar training on the grounds of ‘extraordinary circumstance’; a petition supported by Grand Cleric Sophronia and tacitly backed by the Knight Commander.  Marcus, despite his reputation as a joker, was a diligent and dedicated young man; praised by the Novice Master for his skill, honour and courage; the very model of what a Templar Novice should be.  For this to happen seemed unfair, although at least Bann and Lady Trevelyan showed no inclination to shun their youngest son for being a Mage.  That rarely happened with noble or wealthy families though, normally it was only peasants or ill-educated commoners, steeped in a superstitious fear of magic, who would cut all contact with a child consigned to a Circle.

Her Holiness had disallowed any dispensation; albeit in a gracious, personal, letter which Bann Lewin had shown Durward.  Reading between the carefully worded phrases of regret and consolation, the Knight-Commander could guess the pressures Beatrix, old and feeble, was facing in trying to push for reform of the Circles, and the opposition Lady Seeker Nicoline would raise to any idea of a Mage being permitted to serve as a Templar.  Durward was not an overly sentimental man, but the look on young Marcus’s face when told the news had been painful to behold.

“There are Mage-Wardens, why shouldn’t there be Mage-Templars?” Lydia objected “Imagine the power they would wield in fighting against criminal magic, let alone the potential for reducing the sense of division and hostility.”

“I think that’s exactly what Nicoline fears.” Durward topped up Lydia’s glass “He’s a relic of an ignorant, superstitious, past; Most-Holy will never be able to get the Seekers to accept any reform while she’s in command.  If only someone with sense were in charge…”

“Once Marc seems more settled, I think I might write to Vivienne... see if she has any advice” Lydia mused, still staring into the fire. The Knight-Commander raised an eyebrow

“You think he might make a candidate for Knight-Enchanter?”  It wasn’t impossible, given his noble birth and the potential he showed, but the Knights-Enchanter were the elite of the elite; standing alongside Most-Holy herself as her personal guard and emissaries, the only Magi exempt from the restrictions of a Circle.  Even to be selected as a candidate for the intense and gruelling apprenticeship was regarded as a high honour

“Why not?” The more Lydia considered the idea, the more it made sense and might give the boy something to break him out of this depression he was sinking into “He has the ability, to say nothing of the combat training he’s already received.  With the right training and guidance, he could easily be the equal of First Enchanter Irina…”

A statue of Irina Trevelyan stood in the plaza before the Grand Chantry in Ostwick City, a rare honour for a mage.  The woman had helped lead the defence of the city for days after the surrounding countryside had been overrun; filling the space between the double walls with a magical fire that held back the Darkspawn until a relief force arrived.  The effort claimed her life but the statue still stood as a testimony to the city’s gratitude.  Mention of Irina made Durward pause; that letter he’d received from his Warden friend in Val Chevin this morning… he’d been meaning to discuss it with Lydia tonight but perhaps it would be better to wait until he had time to give the matter more thought.  It wouldn’t be wise to leap to any conclusions…

Lydia was well used to her lover’s moods, and the brooding way he stared down at the glass in his hands told her he would be lost in thought for the rest of the evening.  She got up and kissed him on the cheek.

“I’m going to make sure Marcus is alright then I’m going to bed. Don’t read too late, you’ll just strain your eyes again.”

“You have my word” he assured her, taking her hand and kissing it “Sleep well, my dear…”

Once she was gone, he got up and went to his desk; taking the letter from Warden-Constable Blackwall out of his correspondence chest.

_…we cannot yet be sure, owing to the remoteness of the territory and sparse population; but the reports received so far suggest large numbers of Darkspawn, larger than have been seen in many years, congregating and moving slowly northward.  I pray the reports are exaggerated but, even if they are, this disorder in Ferelden is allowing the incursions of these beasts to occur with greater frequency and fewer checks._

_If the worst of our fears are realised, then the Fereldan dog-lords must turn from their petty squabbles and recognise this is a threat to us all.  Ostwick may be far from the Korcari Wilds but history teaches us that a Blight, once in full force, knows no limit.  I would advise you, my dear friend, to begin cautiously preparing for a hard and dangerous time ahead.  I will, of course, keep you informed of anything else I hear…_

**9:41 Dragon: Caer Bronach, near Crestwood, Ferelden**

“We should find you some different clothes, running around in Grey Warden armour while you’re being hunted by the Wardens might not be a good idea” Marcus paused “Plus, we’re still in Ferelden and my relationship with Queen Anora and Arl Teagan is rocky enough without having to try and explain this.”

Alistair gave a slightly disgruntled laugh

“Remind me to tell you about my relationship with them sometime, although being exiled on pain of death probably says everything you already need to know.”

“Leliana told me about what happened at the Landsmeet. It sounded...”

The Warden lowered his eyes, sighing heavily

“There aren’t really words for it, are there? No matter what the rights or wrongs were...” He looked up and Marcus could see the pain and bewilderment the man still felt after all these years “You seem like a decent chap, Lord Trevelyan, and I’m grateful for your help and hospitality; I hope you never have to stand and look into the eyes of a friend while they betray you”

Marcus felt a surge of guilt and regret

“Forgive me, I shouldn’t have brought that up...”

Alistair laughed again and this time Marcus caught a hint of genuine humour

“Don’t worry, if it’s a choice between thinking about the Landsmeet or the Calling; I’d prefer the former, rather than the demonic siren song summoning me to a gruesome death.”

It sounded strange to say, but the Fifth Blight had passed almost un-noticed outside Ferelden until it was over.  The Hero of Ferelden had defeated the Archdemon before the Blight could spread into Orlais or the Free Marches, while the accompanying political chaos meant it was weeks before a clear picture of events reached the eager ears of foreign courts.  Marcus had been too pre-occupied at the time to notice even if news had spread earlier; the sudden, unexpected, manifestation of magical ability had thrown his world upside down and he’d had little time or inclination to think of anything beyond that. Looking back, his magic had manifested at roughly the same time as the beginning of the Blight; Mages were rare in the Trevelyan family and Marcus was starting to believe this was no co-incidence.  There was a connection between all these events, he was sure of that, but the meaning of that connection still eluded him.

It was only eleven years ago, but already felt like legend; and the man beside him, only months older that Cullen, something out of an epic past.  He’d heard the stories of the Landsmeet at Denerim, where Loghain Mac Tir had been deposed and sentenced to the Joining, his daughter Queen Anora enthroned in his place; heard about how Alistair, King Cailan’s bastard, had been exiled for demanding the death of his father’s murderer and how the Hero of Ferelden had been manipulated by Anora and Teagan into conspiring with her friend’s disgrace and banishment. 

Outside Ferelden, the consensus was that a naïve boy had been outmanoeuvred by the Queen and the Bannorn, aided by Arl Teagan.  Queen Anora had no husband, no heir and was reputedly barren, Teagan would be the obvious candidate to succeed her and, in the heat of crisis, Solona had been easily persuaded to abandon her friend.  The tale Leliana told was similar and, given her love for the Hero, Marcus had no cause to doubt the veracity of it.  It was a depressingly familiar story. Much the same had happened in Orlais when Celene had insinuated her way onto the throne in place of Gaspard. 

Alistair had the air of a man still struggling to understand what had happened to him and why; why people he’d trusted, loved and fought alongside had thrown him to the wolves.  Marcus found himself feeling sorry for him; he seemed like a decent, good-hearted, man who must have been ill-prepared for the brutal reality of politics.  He also made a mental note to be extra cautious in his future dealings with Ferelden’s rulers.  Teagan was already being an arse over the Inquisition presence in the Hinterlands; the claiming of Caer Bronach as an Inquisition Keep was sure to have even more messenger birds flapping between Skyhold, Redcliffe and Denerim. 

“I’m looking forward to seeing Skyhold” Alistair hesitated “But a little nervous as well… faces from the past and all that…”

“There’s been a lot of that recently…” Marcus acknowledged, remembering how much Hawke’s arrival had unsettled Cullen “Not always welcome.”

“I mean, I’ve not seen Leli since the Landsmeet… so a lot of awkwardness there” Alistair continued, lost in his own flow of thought “And Cullen…”

He paused and glanced awkwardly at Marcus

“How much do you know…?”

“Enough to know that your last meeting was an unpleasant one…”

Alistair laughed again; that same sad, almost self-mocking, laugh Marcus had noted before when he talked about his past

“You have a gift for understatement, Lord Trevelyan.  It was certainly ‘unpleasant’.  I had nightmares afterwards; but for the Joining that might have been me.  Some years later I was in Kirkwall, not in a good way either, that was where I first met Hawke and I heard Cullen was with the Templars there.  The things I heard… didn’t make me eager to renew our acquaintance.” He paused and looked directly at Marcus, tilting his head questioningly “Hawke spoke as if the two of you were good friends, he must have changed a lot since then.”

“He has, and I value his friendship and advice greatly” Marcus blushed slightly “That may have led me to be less hospitable to Ser Hawke than I ought to have been.  His arrival at Skyhold created a tense situation and we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.”

Out in the field Hawke had been less abrasive, almost apologetic for his previous manner, but the two men still didn’t see eye to eye over pretty much anything except the need to break whatever hold Corypheus had over the Grey Wardens.  It had been with a sense of mutual relief that they’d agreed for the former Champion to lead an advance party to the Western approach and scout out the Grey Warden positions there. 

“Hawke tends to see things in black and white; he’s a bit colour-blind when it comes to shades of grey” Alistair smiled wryly “Ironic… when you think about it.”

“Well, if it’s any consolation Alistair” Marcus put a friendly hand on the Warden’s shoulder “Cullen is just as nervous about the whole situation, but he does want to speak with you… As for Leliana? You’re on your own there.  I gave up trying to read her a while ago.”

“Well, that’s something” Alistair sighed, then sniffed the air; appetising smells wafted up from the courtyard. “I’m going to get some food, care to join me?”

Marcus shook his head

“I have a couple of letters to finish off before they send out the last birds, but I’ll be down soon.  The others will be there though…” he paused as Alistair turned to leave “Don’t refuse a drink from Bull or he’ll get pissed off and no one wants that! If Varric asks you to play Diamondback, say no; if Dorian asks you, _definitely_ say no! Otherwise you’ll be fine…”

It felt almost like the old times, Alistair thought, as Varric shifted along the bench to make room for him and pushed a mug of beer into his hand; the Qunari, Iron Bull, roared with laughter at some filthy joke the elf-girl called Sera had just finished telling while that other Warden, Blackwall, shook his head in amused dismay.  At least for an evening he could try to forget the ever-present song of the Calling and see if he could remember what it meant to be happy… 

###

There were still no proper roads to Skyhold but scouts had already marked out the safer tracks through the Frostbacks and set up camps as makeshift waystations for the sappers and engineers creating routes for merchants, soldiers and dignitaries to use.  At their present pace, it would be just a few days before they were home.  Marcus smiled quietly to himself as he prepared for bed, a light wind shaking the heavy canvas of the tent, the Inquisition had only been in its new base of operations for little more than a month and a half, and already he was thinking of it as ‘home’.  Haven had always felt temporary, a place they occupied until the Breach was closed.  The solid stone walls of Skyhold felt familiar, reminding him of Willowberg, and he had another reason to think fondly of the place…

With that thought fresh in his mind, Marcus went over to the table and dipped his pen into the inkhorn; adding a few lines to the message that would be sent off in the morning.

_Only four more days, three if the weather holds, and I’ll be back. I’ve missed you, my Lion, and hope you haven’t been over-straining yourself. The Inquisition needs its Commander hale and well, and so does the Inquisitor.  Queen’s Mage to F4; checkmate!  Feel free to call me a sneaky… whatever…_

_Andraste smile upon you and hold you safe_

_M_

###

“That’s a little distracting”

Marcus looked down to where his hand rested on Cullen’s beside the chessboard. It had been slowly edging there over the course of play, a bit of intimate mischief. 

…They had returned to Skyhold earlier that day, Cullen meeting them with an advance party at the edge of the growing camp on the plain below the fortress.  Some timber buildings were already beginning to appear and foundations for more substantial structures had been dug; before too long there would be a substantial town in Skyhold’s shadow, with all the additional challenges and problems that would entail.

Cullen and Alistair had greeted each other with what Marcus could only think of as ‘warm caution’ and once essential business had been concluded the two men disappeared into Cullen’s office for a long conversation.  There was, of course, a whole stack of correspondence that required Marcus’s personal attention, seal and signature; along with Josephine’s helpful notes and polite request not to doodle little caricatures of the recipients in the margins this time.  It was already past sunset when a messenger arrived with a note from Cullen

_My Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan; you are a sneaky… whatever… and I demand a rematch. If you still have any of that wine your father sent, please bring a couple of bottles. I could do with a good drink. Your Lion has missed you too._

Cullen looked tired, with heavy dark patches under his eyes, but whatever had passed between him and Alistair didn’t seem to have troubled him as much as Marcus had feared. Nevertheless, he thought it wise not to ask; setting up the chessboard instead and offering the Commander a chance to win his dignity back…

“Oh, sorry!” He began to move his hand away and Cullen smiled

“I don’t mind being distracted, I can see I’ve already lost this one...”

“Well... if that’s the case” there was an impish glint in Marcus’s eyes and he moved his hand further up, pulling gently on the lacing of Cullen’s arm-greave “perhaps we should forget the game and I can concentrate on distracting you instead”

Cullen took a mouthful of wine, feeling a nervous tightening in his stomach as Marcus drew off the greave and undid the cuff of his tunic, running his hand along the soft skin on the inside of the Commander’s forearm.

“That is... very distracting” Cullen agreed as Marcus got to his feet and began to unbuckle the pauldrons from his shoulders. It felt very different to when his squire did this, perhaps it was the lingering, gentle movements of Marcus’s hands or the way he watched him carefully, alert for any sign of discomfort or indication that he should go no further with this game of ‘distraction’.

Cullen knew what was happening… what might be about to happen… the swelling between his thighs told him that his body craved it even while his mind still hesitated.  Part of him wanted to stop this right now, it was just a game after all… Marcus was only being… being playful after having been away for so long, wanting to see how far this would go before Cullen laughed; told him to stop acting the fool and set up the board again, but… Maker! It felt so good the way Marcus’s lips brushed his neck as he bent to unfasten the breastplate and Cullen willingly raised his arms to allow his tunic and undershirt to be eased off...

Marcus had seen Cullen half stripped before and the long woollen drawers he wore when sparring left very little to the imagination but here, in the soft light of the candles, shadows throwing the muscles of his chest and shoulders into sharp definition he looked different; dangerously sensual yet still fearful of the new journey he was embarking on.  Marcus stepped back, so Cullen could watch as the Mage’s own tunic and undershirt joined the growing pile on the floor.

Cullen contemplated the younger man’s body in a way he had never consciously permitted himself before.  Marcus was slightly shorter than him, heavier in the chest and arms from wielding staff and two-handed blade; broad shoulders tapering to a lean, trim waist and solid powerful legs. Strong and confident, the scars raised into high relief by the flickering half-light; almost hairless except for the light reddish wisps under his arms and the thicker, darker, trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his breeches.

Cullen felt an intense yearning to touch him… hold him… to feel the warmth of his skin, the firmness of the muscles beneath. Guided by instinct more than any rational thought he got to his feet and stepped closer.  A low moan escaped his lips as Marcus’s hands brushed lightly across his chest and wandered slowly down the taut ridges of his abdomen. Cullen’s throat tightened in anxiety and apprehension…

He was no virgin; Kirkwall had its courtesans, discreet ladies far above the common whores of street or tavern, where a man could find relief without incurring too much censure. He’d visited one every few weeks or so like he would the healer for a purge, a disagreeable necessity that not even Knight-Commander Meredith could find fault with.

But, to be with someone who _cared_ for him? Feel the touch of someone who wanted _him_ rather than the stack of gold coins tactfully left on the night stand? It frightened and aroused him in equal measure. There was no turning back from this moment, it either ended now or he was bound to Marcus in a way he hadn’t thought possible. All he had to do was say ‘No’

Marcus paused, hands resting on Cullen’s hips; worried by the man’s silence and sensing the struggle inside

“Cull?” his voice was soft and low, a nervous whisper “Do you want me to stop?”

For an agonising moment Cullen remained silent, motionless, and Marcus felt a surge of panic. This was going too far… he hadn’t imagined it would get to this stage, expecting at any point for Cullen to laugh, kiss him and tell him to behave.  Now they were both half-naked, their arousal evident, and would it be too much for the man?  Marcus had promised himself to take things slow… not to push it to a point where Cullen would retreat behind his shell. If he stopped now… made a joke and threw him his shirt… maybe they could blame it on the wine…  He began to take his hands away, almost crying out with alarm as Cullen seized his wrist

“Don’t stop!” He growled, pulling Marcus against him; then his voice became softer, almost pleading “Please, don’t stop… Maker help me, but I want... I _need_ to be with you tonight and... and every night, if… if that’s what you want”

Marcus took Cullen’s face in his hands and kissed him, long and slow, he could almost taste the man’s hunger and desire but still there was the warning voice; the need to give the Commander a way out if things became too intense.

“I love you, Cullen; and I need you so badly it hurts, but I want to be sure this is…”

Cullen put his fingers to Marcus’s lips to silence him, looking at the Mage with an expression of disbelief and… well… _joy_.

“You… You _love_ me?” He’d never thought to hear those words from anyone’s lips.  He looked into Marcus’s eyes, seeing the man’s shock at his admission but also a profound, longing, tenderness. “I… I didn’t think…”

Marcus took a deep breath, simultaneously cursing and blessing whatever impulse caused him to blurt that out

“I don’t remember much about when you found me after Haven” he slipped his arms around Cullen’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulder “But I remember your voice and your arms around me; and I knew that I was safe, that it was going to be alright because you were there. I still feel that way, you give me the strength to keep going...

“I love you too, Marc…” Cullen said quietly “I almost went mad when I thought you were dead.  You’ve given me hope, a reason to believe in myself again.   I don’t want this to stop; I want… I want _you_ , for as long as the Maker gives us…”

“Cullen, I…” Marcus began, but was silenced again by the Commander’s kiss.  This time it was Cullen’s hands touching, exploring, hesitantly at first but then with greater firmness and confidence as he felt the younger man responding; pulling at their remaining clothes until both were naked, skin moving against skin.  Being with someone like this, without reservation or… or guilt… it set something on fire within him; a heat and passion he’d never felt before, never knew he was capable of feeling…

…growling with a fiercely mounting lust as he felt Marcus’s warm, strong, hand close gently around him; teasing, touching, fanning the fire into an incandescent glow of urgent desire… slipping fingers, wet with spit, between Marcus’s legs and hearing the eager gasp of consent; looking into the other man’s eyes, seeing his own burning need reflected in them, the almost imperceptible nod that told him _‘Do it!’_

Maker!  He wasn’t sure if it was him crying out, or Marcus, or both as he thrust forward; arms tight around the other man’s waist, teeth grazing his shoulder… nipping… biting… licking…  Sensations so intense that Cullen could no longer tell where he ended and Marcus began, the pair of them moving together as one… wrapping his hand round Marcus’s thick, hard cock… stroking in the same rhythm as the movement of his hips…

...the air around them heavy with the salty, musky, ozone tang of sweat… thrusting, faster… harder… as he felt the tightening in his balls and Marcus swelling in his hand… the warm pulsing of the Mage’s orgasm simultaneous with his own… Cullen’s baritone roar merging with Marcus’s deep, gasping grunts until the two men collapsed together in front of the still-glowing embers in the fire basket.

They lay exhausted, side by side, for several minutes before Marcus realised Cullen was crying.  He raised himself up on one elbow

“Cull…? Are you alright?”

Cullen nodded, running his hand over his face

“I just… I never knew it could be like this…  Never thought I deserved…”

Marcus leaned over and kissed him, gently wiping the last of the tears away with his thumb

“You deserve to be loved, Cull; believe that, and believe that I love you...” Marcus looked down, feeling Cullen’s hand against his chest and saw that he was touching the silver Andraste hanging around the Mage’s neck; a sad, pensive look on his face.  Marcus knew exactly what… who… Cullen was thinking about.  “Aidhan will always have a place in my heart and my soul.  Does… does that trouble you?”

Cullen shook his head, raising the pendant to his lips; in his heart, a silent prayer for a man he wished he could have known.

“That could never trouble me. He is your first love; a true Templar… truer and finer than I ever was.  I pray…  I hope I can be worthy of a place there beside him…”

“You’re already there, my gentle Lion; you always will be…” Marcus stroked Cullen’s face tenderly, then sat up and stretched, his gentle smile turning into a broad grin “Now, shall we grab that other bottle of wine and get into bed?  Because this floor is fucking _freezing_!”

###

Cullen woke with a cry, the terror of the dream still gripping him, scarcely aware at first of the arms around him or the deep, soothing, voice.

“Cull… it’s alright, it was just a dream…”

Cullen lay back with an anguished moan, resting his head against Marcus’s arm. The Mage looked down at him with an anxious expression

“Are they always that bad?”

Cullen nodded, running his hand through his tousled, messy hair.  Normally fiercely combed and regimented, it’s natural curls had vigorously reasserted themselves through the night and, despite his concern, Marcus couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Usually… lack of Lyrium makes them worse… more vivid.  I had hoped… with you beside me, but…”

He shrugged and sat up, Marcus’s arm still around his shoulders.

“You don’t have to face them alone though… not anymore.”

Cullen glanced at his… there was no other word to use now… _lover_ , and smiled slightly

“People will talk, you know.  I don’t like the idea of you… of us… being spoken about like some dirty barrack-room joke…”

It was Marcus’s turn to shrug.  Gossip was inevitable and some of it would be spiteful; they both knew that and were strong enough to weather it.

“They’re already talking; Skyhold isn’t a so big a place that people haven’t noticed something’s happening between us…” he laughed “anyway, if I know Sera, the first fucker who says anything out of line will get a codpiece full of bees.”

Cullen shook his head with an exasperated grin.  Sometimes he wondered why Marcus tolerated that infuriating girl but she did show a strange, fierce, loyalty and woe betide anyone who harmed or crossed someone she cared about.  Getting out of bed, he sluiced cold water over his face and chest then pulled a clean pair of drawers from the clothes-press. 

“Put something on” he instructed Marcus “We have time for training before the morning meeting.”

“Training? After last night?” Marcus raised his eyebrows in amusement “Are you serious?”

“Perfectly!” Cullen replied, “We need to work on your thrust and...”

Marcus threw back his head and roared with laughter.  Cullen reddened as he realised what he’d just said then laughed as well.  In that moment, feeling the shadows lift briefly from his soul, he felt that the Maker truly had sent this man to them… no, to _him_ ; a sign that forgiveness was possible…

“Ok, you win!” Marcus conceded once he stopped laughing. He got up and headed to the ladder leading down to the office, pausing to pat Cullen’s stomach and kiss him on the tip of his nose “We’ll go hit each other with sticks for an hour, then tonight you can tell me if you still think my thrust needs work…”

 

 


	7. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***SPOILER ALERT***  
> The events of this chapter take place in Emprise de Lion and contain major spoilers for key events in that area of the game  
> The pursuit of Sampson leads Marcus and the Inquisition forces to the Eastern Orlesian province of Emprise de Lion and the town of Sahrnia, now virtually controlled by the Red Templars. Cut off from the rest of Orlais by unseasonably bad weather and the ongoing civil war, Sahrnia’s situation is desperate and the Inquisition it’s only hope for survival.  
> Even with all they’ve already seen and experienced; neither the Inquisition nor its young leader are fully prepared for the horrors awaiting them in Sahrnia Quarry and Suledin Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Trigger Warnings****  
> Strong language, violence, horror, referenced/implied torture, referenced/implied non-consensual sexual activity  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:16 Dragon: Willowberg Keep, Terynir of Ostwick – Ancestral Seat of House Trevelyan**

Lady Marjolaine’s scream echoed through the family apartments of the Keep, barely muffled by the thick tapestries and curtains of the bedchamber.  In his private oratory, Bann Lewin gritted his teeth, his hands clasping so hard his knuckles hurt as he tried to focus on his prayer

_Blessed Andraste protect her, keep her and the child safe.  Look not upon my sins but upon her goodness; deliver her in good health and may our child always bear your blessing…_

It was supposed to get easier after the first birth, his mother said, but his sweet Marjie’s third showed no sign of being any less arduous that the first two.  Childbirth was a peril for woman regardless of rank or wealth, dangerous as the battlefield.  He might have imported the finest Orlesian physicians, called in a Rivaini midwife and paid for services of intercession in half the Chantries of Ostwick, but the wife of the grand and powerful Bann Lewin Trevelyan ultimately had no greater chance than that of the woman who bleached her linens.

In the drawing room, the Dowager Lady Claudine winced as another scream reached them.

“I should never have agreed to Lewin marrying a de Cressy, regardless of the dowry” she said, for the third time “Everyone knows Compte Marcus had the Black Palsy as a child; the de Cressy’s have been feeble ever since.”

Lady Lucille, Bann Lewin’s twice-widowed aunt and the true head of House Trevelyan grunted impatiently as she turned another card

“Nonsense, Claudie! Look at Johan and Alysanne, they’re half de Cressy and healthy as druffalo; some women just have it difficult every time and poor Marjie is one of them; now, let me concentrate on my game.”

Six-year-old Johan and four-year-old Alysanne sat with their governess as she tried to hold their attention with a game of Running Geese.  Alysanne sat tight up close to her older brother, clutching his hand tight every time mamma screamed.  If they were supposed to be happy that the Maker was sending them a little brother or sister, why were the grown-ups all so worried?

Eventually the screams stopped and the two women waited breathlessly for what felt like an Age before the drawing room doors opened and Bann Lewin entered, smiling broadly despite the tears in his eyes.  He crouched down beside his children

“Johan, Alysanne… do you want to come and say hello to your baby brother?”

In the bedchamber, the midwife finished wrapping the newborn Lord Trevelyan in a soft cotton towel and laid him in his mother’s arms.

“He is healthy and strong, his limbs well-formed with no inauspicious birthmarks.” She grinned broadly as the infant let out another loud wail “and very powerful lungs.  The gracious Lady has given birth to a mighty warrior I think.”

Lady Marjolaine, exhausted by the long labour, smiled as she looked down at the child in her arms; his cries settling down to a soft gurgling as he felt her heartbeat against his head.  Marcus - that would be his name, Lewin had promised their second son could be called after her late father.  The pain and tiredness no longer matter to her, this made it all worthwhile

“And what will you do, my precious little Marcus?” she whispered tenderly “What wonders will you show the world?”

**9:41 Dragon: Sahrnia: the province of Emprise de Lion, Empire of Orlais**

Marcus’s stomach heaved again.  He honestly didn’t think there was anything else left in there but still managed to spit out a trickle of thick saliva which clung tenaciously to his bottom lip. The Red Templars weren’t mining Red Lyrium in Sahrnia Quarry, they were growing it… in the living bodies of the townsfolk taken as ‘workers’. It took a lot to un-nerve the young Inquisitor but this was too much like the nightmare future he’d seen at Redcliffe; it was the smell, more than anything else, nauseatingly sweet at first then clinging to the back of his nose and throat until it felt as if he would never be free of it. He retched again, stomach spasming painfully. 

At least he wasn’t the only one; Varric still looked queasy and even Vivienne had excused herself discreetly for a few moments.

“Here, darling, drink some of this; it might help...”

Marcus swallowed a mouthful from silver flask she offered him; coughing violently at the sudden, familiar burning. He looked at the Imperial Enchanter in surprise

“Dragon’s Piss?”

Vivienne laughed, a refreshingly normal sound in this place of nightmares

“Such a vulgar name, but descriptive… and it is excellent for settling the stomach after a shock! It also makes a _superb_ skin cleanser...”

She took another sip herself and stoppered the flask.

“...Don’t tell Blackwall, my dear, he’d only become insufferable”

Inquisition soldiers, cloths soaked in vinegar wrapped around their mouths and noses, had started hauling the bodies out for cremation.  One pyre for the Red Templars, another for the townsfolk. Marcus didn’t want those who remained to see what had become of their friends and relatives. At least with an urn of ashes they could be remembered as they were. Inquisition forces had managed to liberate the quarry before the most recent consignment had been infected and the rescued workers huddled in a group, weeping and praying as the bodies were piled up.

Marcus wiped his mouth and turned towards Ser Michel de Chevin, approaching them with a leather satchel in his hands.

“Correspondence and orders from Sampson to his lieutenants here” the chevalier told Marcus as he handed him the satchel “This should help your Sister Nightingale locate where the man has his headquarters. We also found bills of sale and loading to, and from, Madame Poulin.  She was providing them with names of people to take in exchange for food and supplies.

Marcus sighed, he’d expected something like this. The whole situation in Sahrnia was depressingly like Crestwood.  Madame Poulin had made a devil’s bargain to save at least some of the townsfolk at the expense of the rest.  It was unlikely the survivors would look upon that bargain kindly. He handed the satchel back to Ser Michel

“Take this to Harding.  Have Madame Poulin arrested, discreetly, and transported to Skyhold for judgement”

“The people will tear her apart if they find out, Monseigneur” Ser Michel warned

“I know. That’s why it must be discreet.  The Inquisition deals with justice, not vengeance”

The Chevalier nodded approvingly, then glanced up at the silhouette of Suledin Keep on the crest of the hill.  The broken, roofless arches looked deceptively fragile; their haunting elegance giving no hint of what awaited them within…

“I’ll deal with Imshael” Marcus assured him “You’ve done enough”

“Normally I would feel honour bound to argue that, Monseigneur…” replied Michel, with a slight bow “But a man must know his limitations and this is something only a Mage can handle. I will escort you to the gates of the Keep, then attend to the defence of the town should the demon attempt a distraction; which I fear it will.”

One of the sergeants approached the two men with a discreet cough

“We… we’re ready for you now, your Worship.”

Marcus nodded to the two battle-mages, standing to one side, who began to formulate the immolation glyphs that would reduce both piles of bodies to ash within minutes.  Magefire burned hot and fierce, destroying the Red Lyrium in the process and rendering the ash pure and safe.  As the flames blazed up he began to sing, in a clear tenor voice; 

_The Light shall lead her safely_   
_Through the paths of this world, and into the next._   
_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water..._

Vivienne joined in, a rich contralto, with Varric’s baritone enhancing both; Chantry tradition in the Free Marches preserved musical forms dating to before the sundering of the Northern and Southern Chantries and the solemn, austere, notes rang out in the icy air as the fires roared.  The bodies had already crumbled as the song faded; the soldiers standing in silent guard until the last of the flames died away.

“What shall we do with the Templars’ ashes?” the sergeant asked, quietly.

“Put them all in a single urn, inter them with honour at the Tower of Bones” Marcus ordered “They were men and women of valour and courage once, betrayed by their commanders, that must never be forgotten...”

Had he made the right decision?  Choosing to seek out the Mages at Redcliffe gave Sampson and his agents the time to corrupt the Templars with Red Lyrium.  From what they’d been able to determine from the trail left at Therrinfal Redoubt, an Envy Demon masquerading as Lord Seeker Lucius Corrin had first turned the officers and then the bulk of the knights; convincing them this was merely a new, more potent, form of Lyrium to aid in the fight against the rebel Mages.  They’d taken it without question, trusting in their commanders, and become these… _things_.  Aside from a few scattered groups and those who had joined up with the Inquisition, the Templar Order had become a tool of Corypheus; a monstrous parody of itself.

Should he have paid more attention to Cullen and Cassandra’s urgings and gone to meet with the Templars instead? Tried to win them out from under their tainted leaders?  Marcus shook his head, he couldn’t afford to second-guess himself, not now; it was just… under different circumstances, one of those deformed creatures might have been Cullen.

“You’re over-thinking this, Red” Varric could tell from the anguished look in Marcus’s eyes what was going through the man’s head “Either way, Haven would have burned and we’d be knee deep in shit; or ass deep in my case.  You did what you believed was right and I haven’t shot you in the balls yet, so I guess I must agree with you.”

Marcus’s cough sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh

“As Cassandra would say; that’s comforting.  On behalf of my balls, I thank you for your ringing endorsement.”

The dwarf shrugged

“I try to bring a little sunshine into people’s lives…”

###

_…I hate this place, Cull, the cold gets everywhere; I don’t know if it’s some trick of the demon, or the Red Lyrium drawing all the heat from the air, but everything about this feels wrong.  The Elvhen ruins, beautiful though they are, make it worse – as though the whole landscape is grieving for the people who first shaped it._

_Tomorrow I face Imshael, the demon-ally of Corypheus who sits in Suledin Keep and is the facilitator of the misery visited upon the people of Sahrnia.  This isn’t the first time we’ve met, I confronted an aspect of it in my Harrowing; it’s old, cunning and now it has physical form.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m afraid; I pray that fear will make me cautious, I can’t afford to be foolhardy in facing this challenge.  Pray for me, my Lion; even though this message won’t reach you until after the battle just writing those words comforts me, knowing that you remember me each night as I do you._

_I love you, and will write to you as soon as this is done..._

Marcus laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes.  He would need to get some sleep soon but the business of the next day preyed on his mind; his thoughts were busy, fragmented and lacking order.  He walked over to the pile of books beside his bed.  Sera and Blackwall often made fun of his ‘posh’ habit of bringing a book-chest along with him on expeditions, but the mind needed trained and honed as much as the body.  That dusty little basement book-room he’d discovered in Skyhold was a treasury of rare classics on the magical arts; some of them long thought lost, like this one - Magister Vesalius’s “On the True and Authentic Nature of the Fade and its Diverse Inhabitants”. 

_‘…Demons are neither truly many, nor entirely singular. Lesser beings of spite or want abide, without intelligence or will, possessing little beyond the basic need they prompt; a practitioner of the art, even a mere apprentice, has naught to fear from such nuisances of the Fade. A true Demon, a being of Pride, Desire or Vengeance, is as complex and variegated as the forms they manifest; one name, but many countenances, like unto the manifold aspects a man presents to those around him…_

_Each countenance is complete, showing forth all the appearance of being whole and entire, but is possessed of commonality with all others under that name; any Demon of such magnitude is a true commonwealth of knowledge and experience that the skilful mage can access…_

_…Beware of seeking too far within such a commonwealth of deceit and guile.  Remember the parable of Peridon’s Labyrinth and go no further than the first turn lest the winding ways close around thee and conceal the pathway back.  Even if mind and will return intact, knowledge of the wrong sort is a poison to the soul…’_

Marcus closed the book with a sigh and returned it to the pile.  Solas would no doubt greatly disapprove of many of the Magister’s conclusions, and perhaps the work of a notorious Tevinter Blood-Mage was not the best source of inspiration for the morrow, but he was one of the few writers to truly investigate the living nature of demons in such depth.  The way the last chapter ended in mid-sentence might be one reason why no-one had followed up on his research in the succeeding Ages.  Marcus exhaled heavily and turned back to finish his letter to Cullen, trying not to think about the other one already sealed and lying on the table beside his bed; the one he’d written in advance, just in case tomorrow did not go in his favour. 

Before sitting down, he picked up the Spirit-Blade hilt from the cushion where it rested, the polished metal warm and vibrating in response to his touch.  Each such hilt was unique to the Knight-Enchanter who crafted it and the Spirit inhabiting it would answer to no other.  It was an ancient Elvhen technique, Solas had informed him, one that dated back to before the Fall of Arlathan and had survived in diminished form into the time of the Kingdom of the Dales.  If the spirits of those Elvhen forebears of the Knights-Enchanter still loitered around, Marcus hoped he would put on a good show for them…

###

“Power? Riches? _Virgins?_ ” Marcus scoffed as he moved carefully in counterpoint to the Demon, keeping a safe distance between them “That part of you I met before was much more imaginative, _Demon_!”

“ _Choice! Spirit!_ ” Imshael snarled.  It had abandoned all pretence of human form, becoming a shifting mass of corrupting tissue.  The surface, slick with decay, rippled as limbs, features and internal organs continually re-arranged themselves, responding to and reflecting the movements and words of the young Mage who now confronted it. “And perhaps it is you who has become less imaginative… has your position ossified you at such a young age, I wonder?”

“Stop talking to the fucker!” Sera hissed anxiously “Just chop it’s bleedin’ head…s off.”

“Shush, dear!” Vivienne whispered, almost casually; fingers tapping nervously on the shaft of her staff “This is the Inquisitor’s fight.  He knows what he is doing…”

“I hope so…” Varric muttered, Bianca cradled ready in his arms.  Marcus accepting Imshael’s challenge to face him one-on-one seemed like a really shit idea and, so far, his opinion hadn’t changed.  The challengers circled round each other, the mage dwarfed by the roiling cloud of putrescent matter that was his opponent, watching and waiting for any weakness or opening that could be exploited.  Marcus’s gaze was fixed on Imshael, his movements slow and cautious.  His feet seemed to be feeling for their next position independent of where his attention lay, like a man pacing out the steps of a new dance; or…

_You crazy fucker, Red; what’re you up to?_

“You just haven’t found what I want, yet: _Demon!_ ” Marcus grinned “Try harder…”

Imshael’s present form didn’t have anything that appeared to be a mouth but Marcus was sure it was smiling.  Here, in the physical world, the Demon could still get inside his head; pluck from his thoughts the way that Cole could.  He had to exercise the same control on those that he did on his body; keeping their movements disciplined and intentional.

“Something more personal then, less generic?” Imshael mused, the voice resonating and echoing from some unidentifiable organ of speech “Vengeance, perhaps?”

Images, vivid and bloody, flooded Marcus’s mind.  In the midst of them; Anders and Knight-Captain Herrick, writhing and screaming at his feet as chains of magical fire burned their flesh without devouring it, a pain that could be prolonged for years…

…Too close to home, too personal.  He couldn’t afford to let the Demon get that much purchase on his thoughts.

“You offer me nothing I couldn’t gain by myself, without your price attached to it…” Marcus continued pacing, watching, keeping alert to every move Imshael made as it turned and flowed, tossing his staff from hand to hand almost casually; allowing no opening for a surprise attack. “You have let yourself slip, do you remember so little about me?”

Blackwall’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, body vibrating with the urgent need of battle.  Marcus had the demon’s full attention, they should be attacking! He ground his teeth in angry frustration, this duel was a mistake; they had a better chance going against that thing en masse…  He shouldn’t have agreed to this!

Varric’s attention was still on Vivienne.  The woman stood with perfect poise apart from the fingers tapping upon her staff; except there was a rhythm, a definite sense of purpose to the movements… and to the faint trembling of her lips, like she was forming words within her mind that the muscles of her face reacted to.  Dwarves might not be able to work magic, but he’d seen enough to recognize when it was being worked

_You crafty, crafty piece of shit!_

“Oh, we remember…” the echoes deepened and multiplied, a chorus speaking in unison, the voice of the Collective “…we remember _much_ …”

Something that might have been a nose in a sick man’s fever-dream twitched, smelling the air

“…you stink of Templar, inside and out; Lyrium and piety like bitter apples on our tongue.  We remember that taste… remember that boy…  Perhaps information is what you seek?  Would you like to hear him scream? Hear how he begged and pleaded, how he soiled himself even as we made him cum again and again until he bled?” the compound voice dropped lower; a wet, insinuating whisper “Would you like to know the desires we tore out of him…? The things he secretly wants to do… what he secretly wishes _you_ would do…?”

Marcus swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise and choke him as the sounds, images and smells the Demon evoked surged through his mind.  He’d let it get too close… too deep into his mind… needed to find a way out

“Goss… gossip and pornography; is that all you have to offer? No hidden secrets of the Fade? No tantalising clue about defeating the Darkspawn who bound you and made you his janitor here; like some pathetic wraith…”

“I am not bound!” Imshael screamed in fury at the insult “I _CHOSE_ to serve!”

“Then you should have paid more attention…” Marcus grinned, cracking the butt of his staff against the flagstones as Vivienne uttered a Word of Power and the lines of the containment glyph he’d paced out burst into vivid green light.

“You swore…!” Imshael howled in panic as the Fade-fire tore into its substance, shredding it even as it writhed and twisted to escape the sudden assault

“I swore to face you alone…” the Spirit Blade blazed in golden light from the hilt the moment Marcus drew it “I said nothing about fighting you that way… NOW!”

The Demon fought desperately, limbs and protrusions sliced apart almost as fast as it could manifest them; the glyph containing, dissolving it even as the cold fire of the spirit blades tore through its physical form.  The two mages moving in a lethal dance, dodging and weaving to avoid flailing claws; Blackwall’s sword cutting deep and hard as Varric and Sera peppered it with bolts and arrows.  Imshael’s shrieks of rage and pain vibrated off the ancient stones of Suledin Keep; echoing down to Sahrnia in the valley below, where the terrified townsfolk sought refuge in the ruined chantry as Ser Michel and Dorian led the Inquisition troops in battle against the horde of lesser demons summoned by their master’s terror and fury.

At last, Marcus could see it; the Demon’s core, a pulsing mess of corruption at the heart of its disintegrating form.  He dropped and rolled, swinging the blade up and round from a low crouch, slicing clean through the core in a single blow…  Silence, absolute and total, descended upon the Keep; broken finally by Blackwall’s hoarse breathing as he struggled to his feet

“You… you could have _fucking_ warned us!” he gasped, unsure whether to hug Marcus or punch him in the face.

“And the demon would have taken that knowledge from your mind as if it were an apple from a tree…” Vivienne retorted, looking down at the pile of rotted bone, teeth and flesh which was all that remained of Imshael’s physical form “I suppose the researchers will want this to poke about with…”

They turned at a sudden noise, metal on stone; a figure in Templar armour crawling across the flagstones, arm outstretched, shards of Red Lyrium protruding from under the fingernails; one final nightmare hidden within the walls of Suledin…

“Please… water…” the man begged, a ghastly bubbling noise in his throat.

“Careful, darling…” Vivienne cautioned as Marcus approached the knight and knelt, holding a waterskin to his ruined mouth.

“Every garden… has its gardener… It… it said it would take the Red out if I…” the Templar choked out the words, bleeding eyes fixed on what remained of the Demon, then averted his gaze “I… I still have some honour left… Please, Monseigneur… the mercy of the blade?”

“What is your name, Ser Knight?” Marcus asked softly, cradling the man’s head in his hand as the others looked on in silence.  The Templar was young, maybe not even as old as him

“Rey… Reynaud de Campagne. I ha… have a family in Lydes.  Please…”

“They will hear nothing of this, only that you died with honour” Marcus promised him “Close your eyes, Ser Reynaud; this will not hurt…”

It was over in seconds.  Marcus laid Ser Reynaud’s head back gently on the ground, pulling the scarf from round his neck and covering the man’s face.  He got up and walked over to one of the ruined window arches, staring out over the ravaged landscape below, his back to the others.  Sera, biting back tears, moved to go to him but Blackwall placed a restraining hand on her arm

“Give him a few minutes, lass.  It’s hard on a man… showing that kind of mercy.”

Varric sighed heavily, his words summing up how they all felt

“Well… this is some _seriously_ fucked up shit we’re involved in!”

**One week later**

With the detritus of Imshael and the Red Templars cleared out, Suledin Keep had rapidly become the Inquisition headquarters in Emprise de Lion.  The local Barons and Chantry Mothers, such as remained, were quick to pledge support and assistance; relieved to see the Red Templars gone and assured that the presence of Inquisition forces would offer the province some measure of protection from the ongoing Civil War.  It would be wrong to say that normality had returned to Sahrnia; the town still grieved and lay in ruins, but with some peace and stability restored the townsfolk could begin to believe they might have a future after all. 

_…whether it was the effect of Red Lyrium or the Demon I cannot say but, now that both are gone, there are definite signs of a thaw and the locals tell me the river should be navigable within days.  Cull arrives tomorrow with fresh troops and to review the defences at Suledin.  Once he’s satisfied himself that the trebuchets are properly calibrated I intend to return home with him to Skyhold.  I miss it badly, but realise I am going to miss Sahrnia as well – I never thought I would say that.  It’s been a painful, arduous, challenge but for the first time since Redcliffe Crossroads I feel we have won a clear, undisputed and untainted victory.  People here are starting to smile again, it’s hard to realise how important a thing that is unless you saw what it was like before._

_The tavern in the market square re-opened yesterday; Blackwall’s shared some of his distilling secrets with the owner._ Urine de Dragon _looks set to become a local favourite…_

Marcus looked up from his journal as Varric knocked at the door.  The dwarf stood there with two bottles of wine

“Gift from one of the barons!  Thought I’d liberate a couple of bottles before Sparkles hides them all away.” He settled down in the chair across from Marcus with a grunt and began prising the cork out of the first bottle “We both deserve a good drink… and we haven’t had the chance to speak much since Suledin Keep.”

Marcus had been expecting this at some point.  He closed the journal and leaned back in his chair

“Some of the things it said, I would rather they remained…”

Varric chuckled quietly as the cork popped out, but his tone was serious when he spoke

“It doesn’t take a genius to guess which Templar it was talking about. Curly’s secrets stay his own and, as the two of you are still pretending everyone doesn’t know what’s going on between you, we’re all doing our best to forget that part… but…”

Marcus laid down his pen and pulled out a couple of glasses.  He’d talked long and hard with Hawke about what happened in Kirkwall, about what happened with Anders.  Hawke had been unable to execute his lover, regardless of what he’d done. Marcus could understand that even though no justification would ever win Anders an ounce of forgiveness from the normally generous-hearted Mage.  The Apostate had shed Trevelyan blood, murdered his beloved older sister and her infant son along with hundreds of others who just happened to be in the vicinity of Kirkwall Chantry, there would be a reckoning for that one day but Hawke was too valuable an ally to alienate and, besides, he was Varric’s closest friend

“I promised Hawke I wouldn’t hunt Anders down, and I promised myself that I would never abuse the position of Inquisitor for personal purposes.  I’m not going to break either promise; you’re my friend and I wouldn’t want to put you in a difficult situation.”

“Well, I gotta say I’m relieved; because you know I’m always gonna be there for Hawke and I’d hate to see the two of you go up against each other.”  Varric filled both glasses to the brim and pushed one over to the Mage “But, if Anders ever crosses your path…?”

Marcus stared down at the glass in his hands for a long time before draining it in a single gulp and sighing heavily.

“Balon, my nephew, he wasn’t even eight weeks old.  I’ll never forget the… the _sound_ Mother made when Father told us” he looked straight at Varric, his eyes hard and sorrowful “In my place, what would you do…?”

Varric shook his head sadly as he refilled the Mage’s glass

“Honestly, Red? If that ever happens, I’ll hold your coat...”


	8. Skyhold Nights, Skyhold Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****SPOILER ALERT***  
> This episode occurs before the departure of Inquisition forces to the Western Approach and contains mild spoilers for events in that region  
> As Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford struggles to keep some control in the anarchy of post-Rebellion Kirkwall an unexpected visitor may offer a chance for him to escape both the city and his own self-destructive spiral. Also – how Cullen may have got that scar!  
> A year or so later, in a rare quiet moment between campaigns, Commander Cullen and Marcus discuss domestic arrangements and whether to become more open about their relationship. Politics once again intrudes on the affairs of the Inquisition and Marcus shares a breakfast chat with Cassandra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Cullen’s claustrophobia, although not referenced directly in the game, is canon from published resources about the Dragon Age Universe and is an integral part of the PTSD he suffers as a result of Kinloch Hold. The anxiety and panic attacks associated with Claustrophobia can also be triggered in crowded places where there is no immediate or obvious exit. This may be one of the main reasons for the Commander’s uneasiness at the Grand Masquerade in Halamshiral  
> ***Tenir-le-Ciel ‘Hold the Sky’; the closest ‘Orlesian’ translation of Skyhold. Given the obsession of the Orlesian Court with rank and titles, it makes sense in my personal headcanon that they would normalise a situation over which they have no real control in this fashion.
> 
> ****Trigger Warnings****  
> Strong language, references to violence, mild homo-eroticism and referenced/implied drug addiction  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:40 Dragon: City of Kirkwall**

“Give me that!” Cullen snapped, spraying the unfortunate physician with blood and spittle as he snatched the needle and thread from his hands “Now get out!”

The man scuttled from the room as the Knight-Captain positioned himself at the best angle in front of his tiny shaving mirror and, gritting his teeth, began to stitch the gash that split his upper lip clean through. He’d been careless, not spotting the man with the cleaver until almost too late. If he hadn’t jerked his head back in time, half his face would be lying in the gutter. He couldn’t afford to let himself slip like that again, not now that everything was coming apart and men like him were needed more than ever.

He tied off the last stitch and pulled a bottle of Lyrium out of the case below the mirror, breaking the seal with a practised twist of his fingers. Hissing angrily, his eyes watering as the liquid stung the fresh wound, then relaxing as the calm clarity of the drug eased through his muscles. It was his third dose today. That weasel of an apothecary must be cutting it with something, elfroot perhaps, and selling the excess on the fast-growing black-market. If he still had the spare manpower he would have ordered an investigation.

Why was he even staying here? The command, from Lord Seeker Lucius, to withdraw to Val Royeaux lay on his desk; alongside the report that Teryn Fernand of Ostwick and Margrave Henry of Markham had declared the Order dissolved within their respective realms, demanding the remaining knights submit to the authority of the Divine. It was a clever move, Cullen had to admit, something those two old foxes must have cooked up together; allowing them to act against the Templars while demonstrating ostentatious devotion to the Chantry. Aveline must be kicking herself she didn’t think of that. Kirkwall’s Watch-Commander might welcome the Templar swords helping to maintain some shreds of peace in the midst of the anarchy left by Hawke’s departure but, as far as she was concerned, the Knight-Captain could go for a deep-water swim in full armour.

No one wanted him here, that was painfully obvious.  _He_ didn’t want to be here, never truly had even before he realised this was his punishment for daring to survive.  He’d hated Kirkwall since first sight; the narrow, winding, streets and blind alleys that threatened to suffocate him with their closeness, every corner hiding potential ambush; the looming, ugly, crumbling, buildings, legacy of the city’s origins as a Tevinter slave port. The Tevinter slavers were back, gangs of them preying on the homeless and refugees. Aveline had the remaining Templars dealing with them in the absence of any Mages to hunt; except it hadn’t been a slaver who came within an inch of slicing off his face.  A half mad butcher, who’d lost home, business and eight children in the chaos, was the man who almost rid Kirkwall of Meredith’s Mabari.

‘ _Meredith’s Mabari_ ’ In truth, the mocking nickname had pleased him once.  The Knight-Commander’s Fereldan war-dog; fierce, relentless and utterly loyal - blindly loyal, driven by fear and hatred, complicit in her abuses even as he denied or excused them. His pleasure in the name dimmed after he saw the graffiti and heard the jokes, that obscene parody of the old folksong that some street-urchins still chanted when he passed

_‘You know Meredith’s old Mabari?_

_He fucks her up the arse…’_

Cullen realised he was scratching the back of his hand, so violently he’d drawn blood. Damn that simpering knife-ear! He _was_ cutting the Lyrium, he’d deal with the matter himself! He was halfway to the door as Knight-Lieutenant Rylen knocked.

“Excuse me, Knight-Captain” The dry, taciturn, Lieutenant from Starkhaven sounded agitated “A Seeker has arrived.”

For one, horrible, moment Cullen thought his bowels would give way. Even in the best of circumstances, the arrival of a Seeker would have every Templar in the vicinity sweating.  The state of Kirkwall Commandery, with Mages across Southern Thedas in revolt and the remaining knights reduced to doing pick-up duty for the City Watch, was far from optimal but with the Templars assembling in Val Royeaux this had to be a mistake on Rylen’s part; unless his non-appearance had been noted.

It was no mistake.  The tall, dark haired woman in her late thirties was undeniably a Seeker.  Even without the armour he could have told that from the way she carried herself, the aura of command and the searching steady gaze.

“The Lord Seeker’s orders...” He began, preparing to launch into an explanation of why Kirkwall’s situation made it hard for the remaining Templars to detach themselves, but the effort of speaking was too painful and the sibilants spattered bloody saliva everywhere; some of it landing on the Seeker’s white surcoat.

Cullen clamped a folded bandage to his bleeding mouth, reddening with shame and humiliation.

“I am not here about the Lord Seeker’s orders” she assured him, her Nevarran origins obvious in the clipped, precise pronunciation “My name is Cassandra Pentaghast and I have business on behalf of Most Holy.  All I require from you is a room and the assistance of one of your officers.”

“...’tenant Rylen can help.” Cullen mumbled, the bandage still pressed against his mouth.  Having the Right Hand of the Divine standing there did nothing to reduce his anxiety, or his embarrassment at the condition he was in. 

Cassandra nodded her thanks.  Leliana had not spoken highly of Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford.  Her exact words were ‘A stubborn thug with just enough intelligence to realise when he’s made a mistake but insufficient imagination to know how to fix it’

The man in front of her seemed neither unintelligent nor unimaginative.  His difficulty in speaking made it easier for her to examine him and his environment, a far surer way to assess character than words alone.  The books; volumes of history, tactics, astronomy, commentaries on the Chant, a few classic works of literature, the chessboard, the iron training-weights carefully arranged by size and poundage, the small figure of the Maternal Andraste and well-worn prayer-beads on the table beside the narrow, hard, bed.  Everything, even the papers on his desk, in precise and immaculate order.  A disciplined, pious, relentlessly self-improving man; struggling to force order and reason in the middle of madness.  So rigid it was only a matter of time before he broke.  He was clearly over-dosing on Lyrium, the half empty case and bloody scratches on the back of his hand told her that; probably he was doing so without realising.  It wasn’t uncommon with Templars under high stress. 

According to Leliana’s notes, the Knight-Captain was 29, but Cullen looked almost ten or fifteen years older; his face grey and haggard, eyes dark-circled and fearful. Caught with his defences down, in the mortification of his injured face, he appeared like a frightened novice; awaiting retribution for some barely-remembered offence.  Before coming to Kirkwall, Cassandra had read the Investigating Seeker’s report into the business at Kinloch Hold and found it lacking. Survival was not evidence of complicity, despite what Seeker Ruthven thought, nor did youth imply an inability to resist an ordeal that had claimed the lives of older, more experienced, men.  Despite her harsh reputation, Seeker Pentaghast was not a cruel or uncaring woman; in her opinion, the young Knight-Recruit had deserved better than Kirkwall.

Sometimes it takes no more than a few minutes to reach a conclusion.  Despite the work still to be done here, in this failing city, Cassandra made her first decision.  The Knight-Captain needed a second chance and whatever Lord Lucius planned was unlikely to provide that.

“Do not be too hasty to go to Val Royeaux…” she advised, before leaving with Rylen “When you are better able to speak, I would like to tell you about Most-Holy’s proposal.  It may interest you…”

**9:41 Dragon; the Fortress of Skyhold, somewhere in the Frostbacks between Ferelden and Orlais**

‘Austere’ was too feeble a description of the Commander’s chamber, even to call the garret where he slept above his office in the South Gate Tower a ‘chamber’ stretched the meaning of the word.  Apart from the bed, and a chest containing Cullen’s few clothes and personal items, the only furniture was a washstand and a stool.  The man would see to the comfort and safety of the troops under his command long before his own; it was why they would follow him through hell and back but surely, even for Cullen, there came a time...

“I can speak to Ser Morris, we could get that hole fixed in a day or two...”

Marcus’s words roused Cullen from the light doze he’d drifted into. He looked up at the corner where nearly a third of the roofing planks were missing and shook his head

“I like it.  When I can’t sleep I lie here and look at the stars.  It feels like I’m outdoors”

The rest of the roof was pretty solid, Marcus had to admit, and there was enough to ensure Cullen wasn’t being rained or snowed on in his sleep but, even if the two of them weren’t together, it troubled him that the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces was sleeping in a room he would be ashamed to assign to servants.

“I could have a skylight put in, maybe get that tree removed…?” he offered, knowing full well what the response would be but feeling compelled to make the attempt.

“I _like_ it...” The emphatic, authoritative tone of Cullen’s voice told Marcus the subject was firmly closed. 

Ever since Kinloch Hold, being in an enclosed space made Cullen anxious and irritable.  On the voyage back to Ferelden with Cassandra and Varric, he’d been unable to stay in the cabin; spending the nights in a sheltered spot on deck wrapped in his cloak. He’d blamed seasickness, much to the Dwarf’s amusement.  It wasn’t as bad during the daytime, if the room wasn’t too crowded and he had a clear view of the exits, but at night he could feel the walls closing in on him, cold clammy fingers brushing his skin… the whispers at the edge of hearing…

In Kirkwall, the Knight-Captain’s habit of keeping his chamber window open, regardless of weather or season, had been a standing joke; something perfectly in keeping with his severe manner.  At Haven, he’d slept in a tent alongside the troops; just another mark of the Commander’s discipline and lack of concern for his own comfort.  Skyhold was another matter, there were royal palaces less magnificent than the fortress of the Inquisition and no reason why it’s General should not have a fine suite of rooms in the Grand Keep.    

The South Gate Tower suited him perfectly, though, and he’d requisitioned the upper chambers at first sight. It gave him a perfect view of the approach to the castle and the growing settlement below, an equally fine outlook over the upper and lower courtyards and, at night, when the fear threatened to claim him, he could feel the cool air on his face, look up at the stars and hear all the comforting little background noises that told him he wasn’t trapped. He could explain this to Marcus, but the Inquisitor had enough to worry about without being troubled by every one of his problems.  He would have half the roofs in Skyhold partially removed and insist on future council meetings being held in the open air.  The corner of Cullen’s mouth twitched in a faint smile; that was a ridiculous exaggeration, of course, and he should no doubt tell him the truth at some point, but he did like watching the stars from his bed – almost as much as he liked having someone beside him who cared for what he wanted. 

“The chambers in the South Gate Tower are still unoccupied” Marcus mused aloud “Perhaps I should have my apartments moved there? That way I wouldn’t have to creep back over the bridge and through the Rotunda every morning, like some misbehaving chambermaid. I’m sure those birds of Leliana’s are silently judging me…”

Cullen shook his head with a short, snorting, laugh

“You’re the Lord of Skyhold, your place is in the Grand Keep; besides it would only cause more talk…” he paused and frowned slightly “and do you know _much_ about the ways of misbehaving chambermaids?”

Marcus grinned, rolling onto his side to face Cullen

“A little, but not since Ostwick, so you can set your mind at ease about that…” There had been an Antivan maid at Willowberg, sultry Jacinta with her long auburn hair, who had sometimes crept into bed alongside him and Aidhan for a night of wine, laughter and pleasure with the strapping young Lord and his handsome Templar.  Ostwick, like most of the Free Marches was quite _Orlesian_ in its attitudes towards same-sex and extra-marital liasons, especially among the aristocracy; provided one’s duty to provide a legitimate heir was fulfilled.  Younger sons and daughters free from that duty, like Marcus, could conduct their romantic affairs as they pleased so long as no outright scandal was involved; even that, if managed elegantly enough, would cause little more than mild social censure and a reputation for being ‘daring’. 

Cullen was a farmer’s son from Honnleath, however, and Ferelden was notorious for being puritanical about such things; there might be no legal stigma but it was considered intrinsically scandalous and, where a relationship between two men was concerned, shameful and ‘unmanly’.

Marcus found that more than amusing, anyone who accused him of being unmanly could ponder the falsity of that allegation while shitting out broken teeth, but it occurred to him that Cullen might not be able to brush off such whispers so blithely.  According to Varric it was common gossip around Skyhold that the Lord Inquisitor and his Commander did more than play chess into the small hours of the morning.  Perhaps, for Cullen’s sake, they should have been a little more discreet…

“Does it bother you that people are talking about us?” he asked, “The jokes and rumours…?”

Cullen sighed, barrack life was as rife with gossip and back-biting as any gaggle of nobles.  You grew a thick skin or you didn’t survive; but overhearing the same filth and obscene comments about Marcus…? The man who’d stood alone against the Elder One to save all their lives… a man who’d retained his honour, faith and humour despite brutal suffering and loss… his lover, comrade and truest friend…? It stung, and stung deep.  More than one ‘witty’ trooper had found himself on extended night-soil duty after an incautious wisecrack… 

“It does bother me, very much, for your sake more than mine… but I heard the same things long before, back at Haven.  It seems two men cannot be friends without…”

He raised himself up on one elbow, letting his other hand rest on Marcus’s chest; feeling the steady beat of his lover’s heart

“I’m not ashamed of this, or of us – never think that, but...” He hesitated, wetting his upper lip nervously with his tongue. Even here in private, with Marcus, it was still hard to find the right words sometimes “...but I would like us to keep pretending, just for a little while longer, that the world neither knows nor cares; that it’s just me and you together and alone, with no one else to worry about.  Is that selfish of me?”

Marcus put his arm around Cullen’s neck and drew his face down towards him, kissing him with slow tenderness, flicking his tongue along the scar on the Commander’s lip; enjoying the way it made him growl with quiet pleasure

“Far from it, and I like that idea, Cull... Let’s keep them guessing, but...” He rested his head against Cullen’s shoulder “...with your permission, I’d like to tell Cassandra. I think she deserves to know.”

Cullen couldn’t disagree with that. Of all the people in Skyhold, Cassandra was the one person who ought to know the truth rather than rely on gossip and salacious rumour.  She’d given him a new chance with the Inquisition, perhaps saving him from becoming one of those malformed beasts in the process, and without that he would never have met Marcus…

“Will you tell her?” he asked, Marcus nodded and kissed him again

“I once promised her I wouldn’t take advantage of your trust; I wouldn’t want her to believe I’ve broken that promise…” He rolled onto his back with a sigh “I probably ought to find my breeches and sneak past Leliana’s judgmental ravens _again!_ ”

Cullen laughed at Marcus’s mock frown, nuzzling his lips against his neck; knowing he could find ways of persuading him to stay until the first light of dawn crept into the sky. Maker! This man knew how to lift his spirits…

“Very well, _My Lord Inquisitor_ ; tomorrow evening, with your permission, we will ‘play chess’ in your chambers and it can be my turn to endure their early-morning censure...”

###

“There’s Venatori activity all along the Western Approach…” Leliana adjusted the position of the map markers, deliberately oblivious to Cullen’s quiet huffing “especially around Griffon Keep and the ruins to the north and east.  Hawke’s reports suggest that the Grey Wardens will be meeting at an old Tevinter ritual site _here_ …”

She moved another marker fractionally to the left, briefly catching Josephine’s eye as both tried not to smile at Cullen’s audible grunt of displeasure.  The Commander considered setting up the map to be his prerogative and could be childishly possessive about it at times, hence her own equally childish pleasure at ‘correcting’ it.  It would be inaccurate to say Leliana disliked him, but she had locked horns with Cullen several times back when he was still Knight-Captain in Kirkwall and his questions about the Hero of Ferelden had become irksome after a while.  At least those had stopped when the Commander and Lord Marcus started spending more time in each other’s company…

“Ritual site…” Marcus sighed “Why do I have the feeling that isn’t going to involve dancing about in their small-clothes scattering daisies?”

“Well it might, before the whole ‘dark magic and demon-summoning’ bit…” commented Alistair “but then it’s probably going to be more ‘ _Aargghh!!! Maim! Slash! Scream_ …’ Hopefully we’ll be doing most of the maiming and slashing.”

There was a weariness under the Warden’s light tone; eyes shadowed and face pale beneath his tan.  The voice of the Calling was getting stronger and he hadn’t slept properly for several days.

“Go and see Mother Giselle, one of her healers can give you something to help you sleep” Marcus advised him “It’s going to be a tough journey, getting there before the Wardens, we all need to be at our best…”

Alistair nodded gratefully and took his leave.  He appreciated the Lord Inquisitor’s courtesy at including him in the strategy meetings, but as the Calling grew louder it was harder to concentrate.  Time was running out; soon the voice of the Blight in his mind would be overpowering and nothing would shut it out.  Perhaps he should speak to that Blackwall chap, see how he managed to resist it so well…

“Now that Ser Alistair is out of the room…” Leliana produced a message from inside her glove.  Marcus groaned the moment he saw the seal

“Andraste’s…  What’s biting Teagan’s arse now, as if I couldn’t guess?”

“Denerim has learned of Ser Alistair’s presence here.” The Spymaster informed him “Arl Teagan warns us that harbouring an exiled pretender on Fereldan soil, together with the continued presence of Inquisition troops in the Hinterlands, is a grave interference in the sovereign affairs of Ferelden that cannot be tolerated much longer.”

Cullen folded his arms across his chest with a disgusted snort

“The last time I looked at the map we were in Orlais; and if Arl Teagan wants our soldiers out of the Hinterlands he can send his own men to keep order in their place.  Personally, I’d be glad to have those troops freed up to deal with the situation out west…”

“The question of where the border lies in the Frostbacks was never formally settled when Orlais withdrew from Ferelden, at least as far as the Fereldan were concerned…” Josephine interjected, turning to Marcus “Val Royeaux considers us to be firmly within Orlais, hence the title Seigneur de Tenir-le-Ciel they conferred to formalise the situation; Denerim however…”

“Considers us Orlesian or Fereldan as it suits them…” snarled Cullen, staring at the map

“Well then…!”  Marcus smirked slightly as a response formulated in his mind “Please inform the _Fereldan_ Arl Teagan that an _Orlesian_ Grey Warden is advising the _Andrastian_ Inquisition on matters pertaining to the present situation in the Empire of _Orlais_ and, if he doesn’t like it, he can kiss the Seigneur de Tenir-le-Ciel’s _beefy Ostwick arse!_ ”

“I shall… try… to convey that answer in the appropriate diplomatic terms…” Josephine smiled.  Cullen openly laughed

“Don’t bother; it’s Teagan.  If we’re lucky he’ll just burst on the spot…”

“Arl Teagan is a sack of wind, but he is still the real power in Ferelden” Leliana warned “We cannot afford to lose sight of that…”

Marcus chuckled, winking at Cullen and Josephine as he picked up his papers from the table

“Just warn me if he’s going to have a sudden, tragic, accident.  I’ll need to practise looking shocked and surprised…”

###

Marcus paused at the head of the steps leading from the Great Keep to the Upper Courtyard, taking a deep breath of the clear morning air and returning the greeting Sera and Bull waved to him from where they sat breakfasting in front of the Herald’s Rest.  Whoever first settled Skyhold had found a near-perfect site.  The castle occupied a natural sun-trap at the top of the valley, giving it a pleasantly balmy climate on all but the coldest days, and on a day like this it was almost possible to forget the war they were fighting and pretend all was well in the world.  He wasn’t sure why he was in such a good mood, there was no reason for it, but the days and weeks ahead held so many dangers that he was determined to make the most of it even though this next conversation might be _difficult_ …

He knew where to find Cassandra at this time of day; in her favourite quiet corner of the Chantry Garden and immersed in her latest book.  By the looks of the cover, Varric had been inspired to compose chapter 6 of _Swords and Shields_ – despite his protestations to the contrary.

“How’s the Knight-Captain doing?” he enquired cheerfully, laughing as Cassandra jumped to her feet with a surprised cry.

“Maker!  Why must you always do that?

Marcus continued laughing, taking a fig from the plate on the bench and starting to peel it.

“Legacy of my ancestor, Grunbert the Surreptitious; legend has it he crept into the Argent Spire and stole the Black Divine’s small-clothes while he sang Benediction” he popped the peeled fig into his mouth _“Mmmph; ‘ese’re de’ishush!”_

Cassandra sat back down with an irritated frown

“Are you here for a reason, or did you just come to play the fool and steal my breakfast?”

He sat down beside her, his expression serious; hopefully she would understand but it was often hard to be sure how people would react.

“Actually, Cassandra… There’s something I need to tell you, a personal matter…”

“Oh…” Cassandra paused, unsure how to respond “Nothing… Not bad news, I hope…?”

Marcus shook his head, running his hand over his close-cropped hair

“No… no, not bad.  I just wanted you to know” He took a deep breath “Commander Cullen and I have become involved; emotionally and… more recently… physically…”

“I… I see” Despite his nerves, Marcus had to work hard to avoid grinning at the complete failure of the Seeker’s attempt to look surprised “That is… unexpected”

_About as unexpected as sunrise_

“It’s something we’re still keeping very private, but we wanted you to know; because of your arrangement with Cullen and… because we’re friends and I didn’t want you to hear about this at second-hand…”

“I appreciate that, very much, and I will be… discreet…”

Cassandra paused again, considering her answer carefully.  Despite her secret passion for the trashiest romantic fiction, finding the words to express emotions was still a challenge for her; a legacy of her rigid upbringing and arduous training.  It had not taken her long to realise that the Commander’s inclinations lay towards both sexes, nor that the Lord Trevelyan was the kind of man he would be drawn to.  The Fall of Haven had changed things for everyone and the growing closeness between the two men had been obvious since they settled at Skyhold; neither of them had been as cautious in their conduct as they pretended

That they were now… intimate… was no surprise to her, nor was it a source of displeasure.  Nevarra might not be as free-and-easy about these things as Orlais or the States of the Free Marches but neither did it share Ferelden’s disdain; such relationships, especially amongst warriors, were not unknown and not a source of shame for those involved.  She also had enough faith in Marcus’s integrity to be sure he had not taken advantage of some momentary weakness or vulnerability on Cullen’s part…

“Just tell me one thing… does this make you both happy?”

Marcus lowered his head and let out a deep sigh; realising for the first time how important it was to him that Cassandra approved.  Much as he loved exasperating the older woman, he’d also come to depend on her friendship and support to keep him focussed on the task at hand.  Without her by his side he doubted if he could have made it this long…

“Very… this is something we want, and need, very much.”

Cassandra nodded, a rare smile lighting up her face

“Then I am happy for both of you… unreservedly so.  You have suffered greatly; you deserve to find joy.  I wish you and Commander Cullen all the best…”

“Thank you, Cassandra, that means a great deal to me; and to Cullen…” He took another fig from the plate “So! Has Dombey finally told the Knight-Captain that he loves her?”

“Well… it’s not that simple…”

 


	9. That Ole Blood Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***MAJOR SPOILER ALERT***  
> This story takes place in the Western Approach, and contains major spoilers for events in that area and ‘Here Lies The Abyss’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Trigger Warnings****  
> Violence and references to violence  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**One quiet evening in Ostwick, a young Marcus Trevelyan finds himself discussing the theoretical dangers of blood-magic with Senior Enchanter Lydia.  Seven years later, in the desolate sands of the Western Approach, the Inquisitor is confronted with the practical dangers as they discover the truth of the Grey Wardens’ desperate plan.**

**Under the orders of Warden-Commander Clarel, with the ‘guidance’ of the Tevinter Lord Livius Erimond, the Mage-Wardens are using blood-magic to raise and bind an army of demons; with the Warrior brethren as sacrifices.  Accompanied by Hawke and Ser Alistair, Marcus and his companions interrupt the tests being carried out at an abandoned Tevinter ritual tower in the Western Approach.  Erimond, gloating, reveals that Clarel believes this demon army will be used to slay the sleeping Old Gods and prevent future Blights.  Instead of this, the Mage-Wardens, now slaves of Corypheus through the binding ritual, will unleash this unstoppable army upon Orlais; bringing the Empire to its knees and removing any obstacles to Corypheus’s goal of restoring the glory of the ancient Imperium.**

**With the Mage-Wardens at the tower already enslaved, Marcus and the others have no choice but to fight and kill the men they came to save while Erimond takes advantage of their distraction to scuttle away to safety.**

**The fight with the Mage-Wardens brings tensions within the group loudly into the open, while Marcus and Hawke come to an honest conclusion over their differences.**

**9:34 Dragon: Ostwick Circle Tower**

Marcus’s brows furrowed in confused irritation and he turned back several pages to make sure he hadn’t misread

“This doesn’t make sense…” he said aloud, eventually, taking a bite from his apple.  Senior Enchanter Lydia looked up from the letter she was writing.  She was glad she’d offered to give the boy extra tuition to help him make up for his late entry to the Circle; he had a quick, agile, mind and was a voracious reader.  At 18, his studies were well in advance of most other apprentices at that age and he wasn’t afraid to ask some very searching questions. 

“You’ll have to be more specific than that” She got up with a smile and walked over to the table where he sat, surrounded by books and notes “Ripley’s work is a mass of contradictions, I was hoping you might spot them… and you haven’t finished your supper”

She indicated the wedge of Tantervale Blue cheese sitting untouched, carefully pushed to the edge of his platter.  Marcus looked up at her and grinned, bits of apple-skin stuck between his teeth

“If I ate that, you’d have to open all the windows…  Cheese and I don’t get on too well.”

Lydia laughed

“I’ll remember that in future.  Now, what is it that doesn’t make sense this time?”

“Well, here…” Marcus pointed to the page he was on “He talks about how blood magic inevitably leads to possession and abomination ‘hence it is rightly prohibited by the Chantry and all civilised nations…’ but further on…”

He flicked through several pages to the chapter that first gave him pause

“…he says the Avvar Mages use blood to call on the demons they worship, but mentions nothing about possession or how the Avvar deal with it.  Wouldn’t that mean that all Avvar are either possessed or abominations?”

Lydia sat down and took the book from him. 

“The lowlanders they raid would probably say they were, but the truth is we know next to nothing about Avvar religion and magic.  Ripley’s chapter on them is plagiarised from the work of the Tevinter geographer, Strabonius, and we can’t even be sure he got that far south…”

“So, it’s useless then!” Marcus huffed taking the book back from her and putting it on his discard pile “Why’s it even on the reading list?”

“Probably because Ripley was Grand Enchanter Rosetti’s cousin…” she mused “You’re disappointed, aren’t you?”

“I wanted to know more about the Avvar…” the boy grumbled.  There had been a Fereldan nursemaid at home, Gammer Marjery, who’d told them tales and sung songs about the wild mountain warriors who would come down to raid the southern lowlanders in spring.  For days afterwards, Johan would drape himself in the wolf-skin rug from Father’s study and come roaring into the nursery to ‘raid’ his little sisters’ toys while Marcus played the brave young Bann and fended him off with a wooden sword and shield.  He smiled at the memory, it was typical of his big brother’s generous spirit that he’d always let Marcus be the hero of their games. His mind changed direction suddenly, as it often did, and he looked up at the Senior Enchanter with that sharp, questioning, look she’d come to anticipate and dread. 

“Why is blood magic _really_ forbidden?” He asked, “I know it’s dangerous, but no-one ever says why.”

Lydia rang for the Tranquil to bring them a pot of tea.  This was going to be a long conversation, and the evening’s real lesson.  Possession was always a risk with blood magic; any spilling of blood attracted the attention of spirits and demons for reasons still not fully understood, either they were drawn to the vital energy contained within blood or it gave them a means to physically manifest.  The true danger was less well defined, easily overlooked by those hungry for power. 

Mages learned to accumulate Mana, living energy drawn from the Fade and the world around them, refining and directing it with body and mind.  Depleted Mana could easily be restored with a good night’s sleep, meditation or, in extreme circumstances, through ingesting a potion of sublimated Lyrium.  That was like borrowing money to pay back a debt though, and the balance would need to be repaid.

Blood magic drew directly on the vital energy of the Mage, or whoever the blood was drawn from, for an immediate effect; one that also allowed the Mage to directly influence other living beings.  Where blood was drawn from the Mage, or a willing donor, the effect or influence was limited.  If the source was unwilling, the ‘donor’s’ pain and terror appeared to have an amplifying or intensifying effect; allowing the practitioner to wield great power in their enchantment.  Demon’s flocked to this like starlings to scattered bread; making it relatively easy for the Blood-Mage to bind such potent, evil, forces to their will, or to force the minds and wills of others to submit to theirs.  Such maleficia _was_ rightly condemned and outlawed by all civilised nations; even Tevinter, although it was well known that the most powerful Magisters made use of it in their private conjurations.  Slaves were never missed and easily replaced. 

“But Tevinter doesn’t forbid Mages from using their own blood or the blood of the willing…” Marcus interjected, enjoying the debate “I’ve heard some people say it should be the same here.”

Lydia arched an eyebrow

“Then they ought to take care about who is in earshot…”  There had not been a case of blood-magic in the Ostwick Circle for over two decades; First Enchanter Raymon and the other Senior Enchanters would be happy for that record to stand unbroken.  Ostwick Circle had a reputation for probity and excellence amongst the Circles of the Free Marches and Orlais; some reckoned it second only to Montsimmard in the calibre of its Magi, and relations with their Templar guardians had always been cordial.  Even the most congenial Templar could not ignore allegations of blood magic, however, and no-one wanted a regime like that of the Gallows. “Think about this way; if you were lost in the wilderness with a companion, would you hunt for food or would you cut bits off each other and eat that instead?”

“Eurghh!” Marcus grimaced comically

“Precisely, _Eurghh!_ ” Lydia laughed “Blood magic is a lazy way to power and laziness has its own penalties.  Blood takes longer to replenish than mana, cuts become infected and a sick body makes for a weak and vulnerable will.  The Chantry’s prohibition is there for sound reasons, although they’re not always well-explained.  Our way takes more effort, and has its own dangers, but a well-trained, disciplined Mage can achieve the most wonderful things without spilling a drop of blood; their own, or someone else’s…”

“Is that why we started using Lyrium, and why the Templars…?” His question was cut short by the Orzammar-made mantel-clock chiming the 8th Hour.  Lydia finished her tea

“The history and applications of Lyrium use can wait until tomorrow evening; I wouldn’t like you to be late for your ‘secret’ training session with Ser Aidhan” She smiled at the way Marcus blushed and stammered in confusion “The grounds are not so large that the sound of steel on steel can’t be heard…”

“You… you don’t object?” Marcus asked nervously “I promise it doesn’t get in the way of my studies”

“That I can tell, you ask more difficult questions than a Seeker on a bad day!”

Lydia patted his arm reassuringly, the other apprentices were much younger or much older and she worried about Marcus feeling isolated at such a crucial time in his training.  Raymon had already hinted that the boy might be ready for his Harrowing in a year or so if he continued progressing at this rate.  That was almost unprecedented for an apprentice so young, but Marcus could already out-argue many of the Junior Enchanters and his abilities were already impressive.  In such a case, postponing Harrowing to a more ‘acceptable’ age might only do harm.  She was glad he’d found a friend his own age, one who encouraged him to pick up a sword as readily and easily as a book.  He certainly seemed a lot happier and more at ease since the young Knight-Recruit had arrived from Tantervale

“And I see no reason to object; all demons fear cold steel, well-wielded, and a wise Mage is a master of more than just magic…”

###

**9:41 Dragon; The Western Approach**

“Surrender, Ser; this does not need to end in death!”

Marcus twisted to one side, deflecting the fire that came rushing towards his face, but feeling the hair on the side of his head crisping in the heat.  There was no humanity left in his opponent’s eyes; only a dull red flame, lacking anything beyond the urge to kill.  The edge of the spirit-blade caught the Mage-Warden under his arm, cutting deep into his side.  The man dropped to his knees, vomiting up blood with a gargling, rasping, cough.  It was in that moment that Marcus saw the flame die; replaced with bewilderment, pain and a silent plea.  He brought the blade down in the mercy-stroke and stood, breathless and shaking, as the short, brutal, fight came to an end.

He'd killed a Grey Warden; a man sworn to protect all of Thedas from the peril of the Blight.  Corypheus and his agents had deluded them, made them slaves of the very evil they sought to defeat.  If he could have found a way to spare him… pull the man back out of the abyss he’d been dragged into…  He felt sick, angry and ashamed, scarcely aware of the words that came to his lips

“…for there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light… Nothing He has wrought shall be lost…”

“Save your prayers for those who deserve them…” Hawke’s voice, sharp and angry, sliced across Marcus’s words “These _blood-mages_ merit nothing…”

“They were my brother-Wardens, manipulated and controlled…” Ser Alistair’s own anger and guilt were plain for all to see and hear “They were doing this to try and protect the world from the Blight! Corypheus has…”

“Always justifications! They weren’t being controlled when they slit their brother-Wardens’ throats” Hawke’s face was red with fury, spittle flying from his lips “I know _too well_ what blood magic leads to, so should the Wardens…  Even Clarel should see that’s madness”

“These are honourable men, driven to extremes by a false Calling…”  Blackwall’s gruff tones added to the growing heat of the argument.

“ENOUGH! ALL OF YOU!” Marcus roared.  The sniping between the three men had become worse the more they learned of what the Grey Wardens were being induced to attempt; if this carried on, all Corypheus needed to do was wait until they were at each other’s throats and half his work would be done for him.  Everyone fell silent, the young Lord Inquisitor rarely lost his temper; even Varric found himself flinching.  It was an impressive, intimidating sight.

“We can argue about blame and culpability AFTER we’ve stopped a demon army from being unleashed on Orlais” Marcus took a deep breath to steady himself.  He’d expended a lot of Mana in the last few minutes and could feel the fatigue biting at him. “Let’s get these men, ALL of them, decently cremated then get to camp before nightfall.  We have to be ready to move on our next objective as soon as I hear from Skyhold.”

Hawke glared at him for a moment before nodding his head

“As you command, _My Lord Inquisitor_ ; you are, after all, in charge here”

For the man who’d led the Mages of Kirkwall in their battle against the Templars, then abandoned the city shortly afterwards, Hawke seemed to resent taking orders from a Mage; Dorian noted, although he decided against vocalising that thought for the moment.  Perhaps it was Marcus’s youth, his noble birth or his pro-Chantry, pro-Templar, sympathies that were the problem; or, possibly, his ‘sympathy’ for one particular ex-Templar that the Champion of Kirkwall took issue with. 

Whatever the reason, the Tevinter Mage decided he would keep a subtle watch on Serrah Hawke.  He _liked_ Lord Marcus; the young man was engaging to be around and very relaxing on the eye.  It was a pity, although understandable, that his preference was for the good Commander Cullen; but Skyhold was not lacking in agreeable company and jealousy was _very_ bad for the digestion.  He would make no assumptions yet, but he could sense a potential problem when he saw one.  One learned to be alert in the noble courts of Tevinter, or one didn’t survive for long.

Varric sidled up to Marcus as they went about their grim task.  He was good at sidling, came with being a Dwarf.

“Hawke’s mother was killed by a blood-mage” he muttered, too quiet for anyone other than Marcus to hear “The sicko used bits of her to ‘rebuild’ his dead wife.  Hawke’s still got a bit of a sore spot for anything to do with blood magic…”

Marcus shook his head, sickened and sad.  The whole world seemed to be plunging into insanity; the more they tried to fight it, the worse it became

“I’ve got no sympathy for blood magic, or what the Wardens are doing, but Alistair and Blackwall need to believe their Order can be saved; that it’s not completely lost, and…” he sat down on a block of stone, his shoulders slumping, staring out at the great chasm in the ground below the tower “We killed Grey Wardens today, Varric.  Whatever the reason, that goes against everything I’ve been taught to believe; and here…!”

All this had once been rich, fertile, land; until the Abyssal Rift tore open and horde upon horde of Darkspawn poured forth to poison the very soil itself, still bare and desolate 800 years later.  The Second Blight had almost destroyed Thedas, and helped to create it.  Darkspawn had reached the walls of Minrathous itself, forcing the Imperium to abandon the Anderfels to save the capital from destruction; the Elvhen armies stood by while Montsimmard burned, laying the foundations of distrust that would lead inevitably to the Exalted March against the Kingdom of the Dales.  Only the combined forces of Orlais and Nevarra saved the city-states of the Free Marches from utter destruction while Kordillius Drakon’s advancing forces carried the Chant of Light with them everywhere they went, establishing Chantrys and Cloisters in their wake. The Alamarri tribes of the Ferledan Valley united under a single leader while Ameridan, the last Lord Inquisitor, vanished in the Frostbacks and the Nevarran Accord established the Circles of Magi, the Templars and the Seekers of Truth.  The war had raged for 90 years, giving birth to the modern world in the process, and now it felt like they had come full circle. 

The Grey Wardens had stood alongside soldiers from every army in Thedas until the final Battle of Starkhaven; where Warden Corrin and his lover had sacrificed themselves to slay the Archdemon.  How was that any different from what the Grey Wardens believed they were doing now? 

_It couldn’t be more different; they spilled their own blood in battle, not in magic.  Some acts can’t be redeemed by good intentions…_

Marcus jerked his head up from his thoughts.  He could have sworn he heard Lydia’s voice.  Perhaps it was just his imagination recalling their evening lessons, or perhaps the weakening of the Veil allowed the words of the beloved dead to be heard.  Anything might be possible in this Blighted place.

“I know what you mean, Red; feels all kinda wrong” Varric sighed. He hated that his two closest friends completely failed to get on with each other.  Some differences couldn’t be reconciled “Look… Hawke’s really an okay guy, but we all got the things that haunt us…”

“I know, Varric…” Marcus hauled himself to his feet with a tired grunt “and I imagine you’ll be saying something like that Hawke later on.”

“I like my friends to be friends” Varric sounded glum “Always feels a bit sour when they don’t”

“The pyre is ready…” Dorian’s critical glance swept Marcus from head to foot “Would you like me to prepare the Immolation Glyph?  You look as weak as a particularly sad kitten”

Marcus nodded gratefully, a sad kitten could probably have bested him right now.  The flames of the pyre blazed up, almost invisible in the bright desert sunshine, while Alistair led the Chant for the Departed in a clear strong voice, cracking only slightly towards the end. 

“The wind here will carry their ashes away quickly” he said quietly, almost to himself “Nothing left to remember their sacrifice, or their shame, it’s how it always is…”

“The Maker will remember them…” Marcus’s words were just as quiet, but there was steel beneath them “He will remember their sacrifice and we will avenge their shame.”

###

At night, the air turned from skin-searing hot to just blistering and the poisonous, carnivorous, beasts gave way to the merely poisonous ones; fires around the edge of the campsite kept the spiders away but it was wise not to wander too far from their glare, as at least one shy pisser had found out.  Unless you wanted to risk your foot, or some other unfortunate appendage, swelling up to four times its size and turning black, you quickly got used to emptying bowels and bladder within sight and earshot of twenty other men.  Dorian, naturally, thought it ‘outrageous’ and was arguing with Blackwall about the need for a measure of privacy.  Sitting to one side, shaking his head with amusement at the Tevinter’s histrionics, Marcus picked at a cake of dried fruit; looking up as Hawke came towards him with two mugs in his hands

“The ale’s tepid” he said, giving one to Marcus “That’s marginally better than warm…”

He sat down beside the mage and drained half his mug in a single, long, swallow.

“I should have kept my mouth shut at the tower.  You’ve probably noticed I’m not good at that…”

Marcus grinned, and took a mouthful.  The ale was tepid, and bitter, but it still washed the dust away.

“Now that you mention it, I have picked up on that a couple of times…”

Hawke nodded, staring down into the remains of his drink.

“I like simple answers, that’s the thing, and none of this is simple; never has been.  If I hadn’t been so convinced I was right, maybe I could have seen that.”

Marcus stretched out his legs, staring up at the stars; visible even with the firelight.  He wondered briefly if Cullen was looking up at them as well right now. He missed him badly and the thought made him feel closer for a moment

“I have a whole castle full of people happily lining up to tell me when I’m wrong…” He glanced sidelong at Hawke “I’m the first Southern Mage to wield overt political and military power for over 800 years; I know how dangerous a precedent that is, and the choices I’ll be asked to make once Corypheus is defeated.”

It was a pity, Hawke thought as he contemplated the young man sitting across from him, under different circumstances he would _really_ enjoy fucking Marcus Trevelyan.  He’d seen the involuntary, appraising, glint in the other man’s eye when they first met at Skyhold and knew instantly he was the adventurous sort.  Handsome with a broad, engaging, smile and built like a Marcher Bull; hung like one as well, judging by the way he filled out his breeches.

The problem with Trevelyan was that he was _dangerous_ , and not because he was the first Mage to be leading an army in Southern Thedas for nearly a thousand years.  The Free Mages might not realise it, but the young Lord Inquisitor stood for the Old Order; the ease of his reconciliation with the Chantry after their initial denunciations should have told them that.  He might not be as vocal as ‘Madame’ Vivienne, but it was clear he thought the Circles worked, the Templars were necessary and only better oversight and a few mild reforms were needed to fix the flaws.  The frightening thing was how Fiona and many of the surviving Senior Enchanters appeared to agree with him; scared into conservatism by the violence their attempt at independence had provoked.

Alistair would no doubt say he was being unfair, that Trevelyan was a ‘decent chap’ who was fighting to restore justice and order; exactly what a Templar-trained Grey Warden would say.  Unfortunately, it was true and, once all this was over, Lord Trevelyan, Madame Vivienne and their allies would no doubt arrange for the Mages to be moved back into decent Circles; to be decently treated by decent, well supervised, Templars – except for them of course, and their fellow Knights-Enchanter, Mages so elite and well trained they could be trusted to supervise themselves.

The symptoms would be addressed, the problems overlooked; and in two or three Ages, they would eventually be right back where they were now and wondering what had gone wrong. Anders was right, compromise with the status quo was impossible and a completely new approach was needed; the Lord Inquisitor and his Inquisition were too invested in the status quo to ever consider that.  Yes, it was a real pity…

“You’ll be one of the ones deciding what takes the place of the Nevarran Accords; whether Mages get to decide their own future or get put in collar and chains again.” he drained the last of his ale in another long swallow “Just be warned, if I really disagree with what you’re doing, I _will_ have to kill you…”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, trying to judge from the tone if Hawke was joking or being serious and an arrogant prick; the verdict was 50/50

“You’re welcome to try, by that stage I’ll probably be glad of the distraction” He didn’t care if Hawke noticed that he set the rest of his ale to one side, unfinished.  It was an old Marcher tradition an outsider might not know; _Drink not with the enemy who will get no quarter_ … when the Marcher states fought one of their frequent, petty, wars; it was custom for the opposing generals to each drink a cup of wine in full view of each other and their troops, a visible sign that wounded, prisoners and non-combatants were to receive honourable treatment “I promised to leave Anders alone out of courtesy.  I expect you to extend the same courtesy to Cullen; I know he’s big enough and mean enough to look after himself, but if you do him any manner of harm you will find me merciless…”

“You can finish your drink, _My Lord Trevelyan_ , I’ve lived in the Marches long enough to know your customs and Commander Cullen will come to no harm.” Hawke sighed heavily “We can’t help loving who we do, despite what they’ve done; but whatever passes between us now, or in the future, concerns you and me alone, none other…”

Marcus picked up his mug and drained it in silence; placing it ostentatiously upside down on the ground between the two men.  After a moment, he laughed

“We’d better not let Varric find out about this conversation; he’ll shoot us both in the balls to make us behave…”  Another loud outburst between Dorian and Blackwall pulled Marcus’s attention back to more immediate matters “Oh for sweet Andraste’s sake; let him have his shit-screen or we’ll never get any peace!”

 


	10. Griffon Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***SPOILER ALERT***  
> Set in the Western Approach prior to Here Lies The Abyss, and contains mild potential spoilers for that and the Western Approach  
> Past and present continue to weave together in the lives of our heroes as events in Kirkwall resonate through the war against Corypheus  
> As preparations proceed for the march on Adamant, Cullen arrives at Griffon Keep with some of the remaining loyal Templars; raising the morale of the Inquisition but causing Hawke to keep doubting the Lord Inquisitors long-term intentions.  
> The temptations of power weigh heavily on Marcus as he welcomes the Commander to the Inquisition’s desert headquarters while Cullen’s inner battles continue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Trigger Warnings****  
> This is Dragon Age, so: Sex, strong language, homo-eroticism, implied past rape/sexual abuse, drug abuse, drug withdrawal… you know – the usual!  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:36 Dragon: Kirkwall, City of Chains**

“You might enjoy it more if you took the armour off; I know I would…”

Lissa eased herself into a sitting position and poured a glass of wine.  Her customer stood over at the washstand, breeches halfway down his thighs, towelling himself dry.  Six Kirkwall Ducats sat in a neat stack on the cabinet beside the bed.

“I apologise if it hurts you; I’ll remove it next time…”  he spoke without turning around, placing the towel carefully to one side and pulling his breeches up “But I am not here to enjoy myself.”

She took a sip of wine, moving a strand of hair away from her face

“What are you here for?” Lissa asked with genuine curiosity; most would do all they could to make the most of their time with her and yet this handsome, vigorous, young man allowed himself so little.  “You pay for the full hour, grunt and thrust for five minutes, spend on my belly then leave. You could get the same for less anywhere in Lowtown…”

Knight-Captain Cullen adjusted his belt

“Self-pollution is a sin; but Chantry law permits those Templars, not vowed to celibacy, to seek occasional relief.  If my custom is that displeasing to you…”

“So, I’m occasional relief? I’ve never been called that before!” she laughed “Your custom doesn’t displease me, Ser Cullen; I just wonder if I might make it more pleasing for you.”

The Knight-Captain was certainly more appealing than some of her clients; tall and blond with a strong, well-proportioned body.  Lissa was sure that, if he permitted himself, they could both have an extremely satisfying hour; she would like to see him smile, certain he would be even more handsome if he did.

Cullen turned to face her.  The courtesan was dark-skinned with long, curling black hair; Rivaini or Antivan ancestry, and fair of face and limb.  There were times he had been tempted to allow Lissa to work her arts upon him; some of the activities depicted in the wall-paintings looked _interesting_ , but even the thought of self-indulgence was a step upon a dangerous path that he could never allow.  He had considered swearing himself to celibacy and continence but sometimes the fire in his belly burned too hot, memories of what the demons did and offered.  He had sought Knight-Commander Meredith’s counsel, fearful of the censure that would follow; instead, she had advised him that release, provided it wasn’t taken to excess, carried less spiritual peril than oath-breaking. She would rather he exercised his needs ‘sensibly’ than be distracted by fighting them.

“I do not require more than this, but thank you for the offer.  To answer your question, I pay for the full hour because I do not wish you to be cheated by my _shortcomings…”_ the small growl he made might have been a laugh “and I would not wish to sully myself in Lowtown.  The women there are not… reputable.”

“Occasional and reputable?” Lissa offered a glass of wine with a raised eyebrow, knowing he would refuse “You’re as smooth-tongued as a Chevalier, Serrah!”

Cullen shook his head; fastening his cloak about his neck.

“I will see you next month, Mistress Lissa…”

Even here, in Hightown, people avoided the Knight-Captain’s eye as he strode along the broad avenue leading to the Viscount’s Keep.  Knight-Commander Meredith’s seizure of power in the wake of Viscount Dumar’s murder and the Qunari assault had seemed essential at the time; the Viscount had no living heirs and the city’s nobility were too scattered and demoralised to agree on a successor, but now?  Even Meredith’s Mabari felt a tiny creature of doubt gnawing at him.  The role of the Templars was to control Magi and protect the common folk from their inevitable malice, not wield political power.  If the Knight-Commander’s sworn aim was to purge Kirkwall of it’s corruption there was yet little evidence of that succeeding; meanwhile the nobility raged and plotted, furious at the curtailing of their traditional powers, and respect for the Templars among the common folk had turned to fear and hatred. The hopes of the people had, instead, been transferred to the Champion; that apostate-loving fellow-Fereldan who’d led the defeat of the Qunari and killed their Arishok.  Surely it might be better for her to step down now and allow the Synod of Nobles to elect a new Viscount, as they demanded, before the Templar Order in Kirkwall was completely despised?

Something hit his leg and he spun, hand on sword, to see a group of ragged urchins scampering away; giggling and chanting that obscene rhyme that seemed to follow him everywhere through the city

_“Mabari! Mabari! He fucks her up the arse…”_

Looking down at what had struck him, he grimaced in disgust at the clumps of shit clinging to his cloak and tried to scrape the worst of it off with his dagger.  Most of the beggars in the city seemed to be swarming up to the plaza before the Grand Chantry; mingling with a larger-than-usual crowd… 

He remembered now; Baron Redbank, one of those who saw himself as the ‘natural’ successor to the late Viscount, was marrying his heir to the daughter of some powerful family from the neighbouring state of Ostwick.  Knight-Commander Meredith had been furious about it; apparently these Trevelyans had connections with half the noble and royal houses of the Free Marches and abroad, even including a Cousland or two, and according to her it was plain that Redbank intended to use this alliance of grand old names to bolster his claim to Kirkwall’s vacant throne.

Cullen had little interest in such things.  In his mind, the nobility was little more than a band of frivolous parasites interested only in their own power; Ferelden had burned while the Banns and Arls squabbled over who should take Cailin’s crown. He still slowed his stride, though, spectacle of any sort was rare in Kirkwall these days and not even the Knight-Captain immune to its draw. 

The bride was pretty, he had to admit as he watched the wedding party descend the steps of the Grand Chantry towards the carriages that would take them the few score yards to the Redbank mansion, emeralds sparkling in her red hair.  The ones in the brilliant, flamboyant, brocades must be the guests from Ostwick; Kirkwall’s nobles affected more sombre styles at present.  Some of the women sported high, powdered, hair and elaborate half-masks in the Orlesian fashion; the men swaggering like peacocks alongside them.  Behind these grandees, as they mounted the carriages, liveried retainers scattered handfuls of coin to the waiting beggars; largesse to bolster Baron Redbank’s reputation as a man of piety and generosity. 

Cullen grunted in distaste as he turned once again in the direction of the Keep.  The hypocrisy was sickening; the bride’s jewels alone could feed those people for a month.  As he strode away, he didn’t notice the tall, dark-haired man crouched in a corner, counting the coins in his hand; nor did Samson, intent on his gains, notice him.

Six Kirkwall Shillings in total, including what he’d earned hauling sacks at the docks all night.  Bigger and stronger than many of the other beggars, he’d managed to grab a good handful before getting shouldered out the way.  That should be enough to get him something, although it would just be that cut shit the Dwarf down at Three Sisters sold.  With Meredith poking her nose into everything, pure Lyrium was impossible to get for any amount of coin; even the diluted, mage-grade, stuff had all but dried up.  At least that Carta crap would take the edge off. 

He looked up as a shadow fell across him.  Some fancy prick standing there, all curled moustaches and pointed goatee; looked like he might be one of the hanger’s on from the wedding.

“Excuse me…” the man sounded foreign “might I interest you in a proposition?”

Samson pushed himself to his feet, grinning.  He was used to propositions; some of these noble sorts, especially the foreign ones, liked their trade a bit ‘rough’.  It all felt the same if you closed your eyes and if the pay was good enough, having a sore arse for a couple days was worth it.

“Got some work for an ex-Templar, milord?” he asked, ‘adjusting’ his crotch.  The ‘ex-Templar’ bit often got a couple of extra sov’s off the older ones; must spice up the game for them.

“An ex-Templar?” The man arched his eyebrows, voice soft and insinuating “That must make life _difficult_ in a city like this…”

“I get by, with a little help” Samson shrugged “and if you were willing to help, sir, I’d be _very_ grateful.”

A smile twitched the corners of Lord Erimond’s moustache

“I see, and how grateful would you be for this?”

Samson caught his breath at the sight of what lay in Erimond’s open hand; the vial glowed with the light blue of purest grade Lyrium, so vivid he could almost taste it on his tongue.  You couldn’t buy that for gold in Kirkwall right now.  Whatever this creep wanted, he could have, just so long as he handed that over.

“Mate…” he gasped “You could fuck me on the Chantry Altar for that…”

“Interesting, but I’m not asking you to demean yourself; not any more…” laughed Erimond “My _proposition_ is a chance for you to reclaim your honour, and get revenge on the sanctimonious prigs who reduced you to this shameful state.”

“What’s your game?” Samson glowered at him suspiciously.  People didn’t hand out stuff like that for nothing… but he wanted it, no matter what the game was… “What have I got to do?”

It would still take some persuasion, Erimond knew, such things had to be approached with subtlety; but this was exactly the man the Master needed.  Already seething with resentment and hatred, with a little grooming he would be their willing agent.  All it required then would be to insinuate him back into the Templar Order and, with the whole city vibrating with distrust for Knight-Commander Meredith, that should not prove challenging.

“Come to my apartments…” Erimond took his arm “You can take this, have a bath and a proper meal, then we can talk about your future. Oh, and _what_ a future it will be…”

###

**9:41 Dragon: Griffon Keep, the Western Approach**

Three short blasts of the horn in quick succession; _Inquisition forces approaching_.Marcus grinned, laid aside his pen and took his tunic from the back of the chair, fastening it as he hurried down towards the courtyard. It wouldn’t do to appear too excited but the Lord Inquisitor was entitled to some enthusiasm at the arrival of fresh troops from Skyhold.

“Hope you’re wearing loose breeches!” Sera chuckled as he passed her on the stairs. The heat was like an oven as Marcus left the cool shade of the keep and he wrapped a scarf around his head, native style, with the fringed end protecting his neck from the fierce sun. The nomadic tribes, who somehow thrived in this wilderness, had proven valuable and ferocious allies.  Griffon Keep had been their gathering place and market before the arrival of the Venatori and they were happy that the Inquisition had restored and respected their traditional rights. In return, their advice had saved a lot of lives and made living in this place almost bearable.

The clatter of horseshoes already filled the lower courtyard along with the shrill greetings of the market woman. More _Qisiti_ meant more silver to sew upon their headscarves and hang around their necks; to the nomads all friendly foreigners were now _Qisiti_ ‘Inquistion’.  Like the matriarchs of Rivain, these women wore their wealth for the world to see; proof of their skill and worth as merchants, and their word carried great weight amongst the tribesfolk.  The _Kalifa_ of the market-women, a raven-eyed great grandmother who reminded Marcus of his Great-Aunt Lucille in the way she ruled over her brood, nodded her greeting as he passed by; a greeting he returned with a graceful bow and mischievous wink that sent a flurry of giggles running through the younger women clustered around her.

The men were already dismounting when Marcus reached the foot of the steps leading to the fore-court; now looking very inch the composed Lord Inquisitor here to welcome the new arrivals, apart from the glint in his eyes.  He was glad to see the messages had got through.  In this climate, even half-plate would have a man prostrate from heat-exhaustion within the hour; light mail and quilted cotton, although offering less protection, at least meant you could fight and ride without passing out.  It was strange seeing Cullen without the heavy Fereldan pauldrons about his shoulders, or his thickly furred cloak; it made him look leaner and younger while the deepening tan of his face only highlighted the warm amber of his eyes.  There was a pallor under the tan, though, and only the most observant noticed the way Marcus raised his eyebrow slightly or the almost imperceptible shake of Cullen’s head.

“He’s been ill…” Varric murmured to Sera as they watched from the lower Keep and she nodded in agreement.  She wasn’t that fond of Cullen really; way too uptight, serious and shouty, but Quiz loved him so he must have his good points…

“Commander Cullen, welcome to Griffon Keep!” Marcus said, with a smile, returning Cullen’s salute “I trust you’ll find everything in order; Knight-Captain Rylen has done a fine job.”

“If My Lord Inquisitor is satisfied, I’m sure I shall be too…”

“I bet he will… later…” Sera whispered into Varric’s ear, forcing the dwarf to suppress a snort of laughter

…My Lord, may I present Ser Delrin Barris” Cullen continued.  A dark-skinned young knight, whose surcoat bore the sword and flames of the Templar Order, stepped forward and dropped to one knee

“My Lord Inquisitor; The Templar Order…” he looked up apologetically “…such as remains of it, stands ready to serve.”

Marcus took Ser Delrin’s hand and raised him to his feet. Maker! The Knight seemed no older than him.

“I accept your pledge, Ser Delrin; and all true Templars will find the Inquisition’s doors open to them…” Marcus looked around at the knights accompanying Delrin. Cullen had sent agents far and wide to try and locate surviving Templars yet untainted by Samson and his Red Lyrium.  They were few, and far between, but slowly their numbers were swelling “Your Order _will_ rise again, cleansed of corruption and restored to honour.”

A cheer went up from the Inquisition soldiers.  The Templar Order had long been seen as the guardians of Southern Thedas, alongside the Grey Wardens.  The fall of the Order and the corruption of the Wardens, coming so soon after the death of the Divine, had seriously damaged morale.  The promise of their restoration cheered the hearts of _almost_ all who heard it.  Varric chanced to catch Hawke’s gaze at that moment, read what it was saying…

_Didn’t I warn you…?_

“I have some private messages for you, _My Lord_ ” Cullen said, with the faintest hint of a smile, as Knight Captain Rylen set about seeing to the quartering of Sir Delrin and the new arrivals “But first, a bath.  I stink like a month-dead goat.”

“We don’t have the water to spare for baths” Marcus looked and sounded deadly serious “…but there’s plenty of sand to scrub yourself down with; after a while you get used to the chafing”

It was impossible for Marcus to keep a straight face at Cullen’s expression of pained horror and he clapped the Commander on the shoulder, laughing

“You should see the look on your face! There’s a steam bath in the under-croft, what the locals call a _hammam_ , far better than a tub” he dropped his voice “I’ll await your _messages_ in my chambers”

“You’ll have to show me where they are first…” muttered Cullen, not entirely happy with the joke “or do you intend me to wander around like a raw novice blundering into everywhere?”

“Like that ‘nameless’ recruit in your story?  I’ll show you round first, then you can go get cleaned up” Marcus turned to one of the squires “Take Ser Cullen’s saddlebags to his quarters and see that the hammam is ready; I suspect all our new guests will welcome a bath...”

###

There was much work to be done.  Scouts had confirmed that Erimond had fled to the ancient Warden fortress of Adamant; where the Wardens were gathering for the summoning and binding of their demon army, the army that the blood-mage and his master intended to unleash upon Orlais.  Empress Celine and Grand-Duc Gaspard were still caught up in their internecine struggles, but Leliana had contacts of her own within the Orlesian army.  If they failed at Adamant, at least some of the Empire’s generals would be prepared for the onslaught. 

Fresh troops arrived at the muster points every day; together with sappers, engineers and all the inevitable camp-followers accompanying a force of that size.  The Inquisition now wielded a standing army that could only be matched by Orlais and Tevinter.  No wonder Arl Teagan and his puppet, Queen Anora, were worried; with the forces at their command, and the high reputation the Inquisition had gathered amongst the commoners and noble of Redcliffe and the Hinterlands, Varric had joked that Marcus could conquer Ferelden simply by looking east and frowning.  As they prepared to assault a fortress that had resisted the Darkspawn hordes throughout the Second Blight, that joke didn’t seem quite so funny anymore.  This was the Inquisition’s biggest battle to date; everything else a mere skirmish in comparison.  If they won, then even the feuding Orlesian royals would have to sit up and take notice.  Very soon, the Inquisition might be in a position to decide who ruled in Orlais and Ferleden, who wore the mitre of the Divine and sat upon the Sunburst Throne.  He could feel the temptations as a constant, physical, pressure; hear the snide, insinuating, whispers in the dark corners of his mind

_Why stop at Lord Inquisitor? why not more…?  Emperor?_

He shook his head, as if to dislodge the thoughts, and poured some more wine; focussing on the reports in front of him.  The knock at the door, and the squire showing Cullen in, were very welcome distractions…

Cullens lips were on his almost before the door closed, tongue probing with an insistent, desperate need; drawing him close, strong hands already tugging at his clothes.  Nuzzling against Marcus’s neck, inhaling his scent, feeling his heart pound within his chest; possessed by the fierce urgency of his desire.

“Maker… I have missed you” he growled, hearing fabric tear and not caring as he hauled Marcus’s shirt from his shoulders; the younger man cursing softly, fumbling with the lacing of his breeches as they stumbled towards the bed, crying out as Cullen’s warm mouth closed around him even as he still pulled at his boots.  No words necessary, no commands or requests; each man knew what the other wanted, craved and hungered for.  Marcus pulled Cullen’s mouth back up towards his, rolling him onto his back and hooking one long, powerful leg over his shoulder; He looked down at his lover with a mute question in his eyes. 

This was always the crucial moment, both men knew what it meant to be violated, taken by force; even in the furnace-heat of their passion, the consent of the other was vital.  Cullen nodded, his breath heaving and hoarse, then gasped, fingers clutching hard at the bedclothes as Marcus pushed forward; slowly at first, with gentle movements of his hips, carefully judging Cullen’s responses and alert for any sign of pain or distress.

Cullen narrowed his eyes and grabbed the back of Marcus’s neck, pulling him close for another kiss

“Harder, dammit…!” he snarled…

###

At some time in the past, the roughly plastered ceiling of the chamber had been painted with an intricate, geometric, design in reds, blues and yellows; perhaps by some local artist for whatever chief had used this as his stronghold. Cullen lay back beside Marcus, letting his gaze meander along the interwoven lines.  It felt relaxing, almost hypnotic, perfect for a bedchamber.  He sighed heavily, feeling Marcus shift, raise himself onto one elbow and look at him questioningly

“I’ve had… bad… days…” Cullen admitted at last “Sometimes it’s been difficult…”

There was so much to be done, so much resting on the tactical decisions he made.  He was the Inquisition’s General, but he’d never commanded a force this size before; never planned an assault on this scale.  Cassandra, and now Marcus, were putting so much faith in him.  He couldn’t fail them again; not after Haven…

“You didn’t fail us at Haven…” Marcus assured him yet again, sitting up cross-legged on the bed “No-one could have predicted an assault on that scale…”

“I should have, it’s what I’m supposed to be doing!” Cullen retorted, sharper than he had intended, “I thought palisades and a couple of trebuchets would be sufficient....”

“Would have been, if it wasn’t for the Archdemon; nothing could have defended against that…” a chill ran down Marcus’s spine at the memory; Haven in flames, tripping and stumbling over the bodies of people he’d been drinking and laughing with an hour or so before; hanging from Corypheus’s grasp, feeling the muscles of his shoulder ripping under the strain, gagging and retching at the nauseating stench of the Darkspawn’s breath.  He rested his hand on Cullen’s stomach, rubbing it gently in a slow, clockwise direction; a technique a healer had taught him years ago “…You did everything you could”

Cullen wanted to believe that but there must have been more, something else, some other strategy that might have saved them.  If only…

“It’s the dreams… the memories… At least with the Lyrium they’re not as intense; as distracting.  I can think… clearly…  see what needs to be done without constantly having to fight against… against this _doubt_ ” He turned his face away, unable to look at his lover; fearful of the disappointment or contempt he might see in his eyes.  This weakness… it was shameful.  It had been turned against him before, he couldn’t allow that to happen again; not when so much depended on him, when all their lives… Marcus’s life… were at stake. His voice had dropped to a barely audible, broken, whisper “Maker, forgive me… I should be taking it…”

“Cullen…” Marcus spoke softly, his voice low and slowly paced “Forget about the Inquisition, the war; forget about _me_ … what is it _you_ want; truly want?”

His hand continued moving in slow circles on Cullen’s stomach, gently working the muscles with his fingertips.  Healer Sœren said this dissipated the toxic humours that gathered in the liver, causing depression; whether that was true, or whether Sœren had just been an old lecher who enjoyed fondling young Templars, it seemed to be lessening Cullen’s anxiety.  Perhaps it was the physical contact, or the proximity of someone who cared for him…

Cullen turned his head to look at Marcus, his expression faintly surprised, unable to remember the last time he’d been asked what _he_ wanted…

Since the day he left home with the Templars, just weeks after his 13th birthday, his life had been directed and shaped from the outside; the orders and routines that defined a Templar’s existence.  Obedience was the watchword, engraved on every Templar’s heart.  He’d obeyed every order given to him without question or hesitation, expected every order he gave to be obeyed the same way; until the time he looked into his Knight Commander’s eyes and realised the woman he’d trusted and obeyed, the superior who’d been his moral compass since the day he set foot in that accursed city, was completely, irrevocably, mad and that her insanity would destroy every living thing its path. 

Without that one act of rebellion he would never have left the Order; never stopped taking the drug that bound him to the order’s will. That sin of disobedience might have saved him from becoming one of those… _creatures_

“Maker, help me… Marcus, I can’t become that man again; whatever the cost.  He… he wouldn’t love you the way I do…” He raised his hand and stroked Marcus’s cheek; a shadowed, haunted look in his eyes “Even if you could still love me in that state… I would abandon you and never even notice, or care.  The thought of that… I can’t bear it…”

“I’ll always love you, no matter what you choose…” Marcus bent his head and kissed Cullen on the forehead “But I know you’re strong, stronger than you seem to think sometimes… You can do this, my Lion; I believe in you…”

Cullen looked up at him, trying to form words that wouldn’t come; gripping Marcus’s arms fiercely, burying his face against his lover’s chest, shaking from head to foot with the intensity of the emotions released within him.  Marcus held him close; making gentle, soothing noises until the shaking stopped and Cullen sat up, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand

“I… I would appreciate a little time to myself… if that is possible” he swung his legs of the bed, picking up his breeches from the floor. Marcus nodded, understandingly, running his fingers through Cullen’s hair.  Even between the two of them, extreme displays of emotion troubled Cullen; made him feel exposed and vulnerable, needing solitude and silence.  It was safer for him to seek physical solitude, rather than retreat behind the barriers that were all to ready fall back into place.

“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed” he promised, handing Cullen his shirt “I’ll come to see you in the morning; will that be alright?”

“I should be fine by then…” he pulled on his other boot and kissed Marcus with deep gratitude “Thank you… my Lord”

Once safely in his quarters, Cullen closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief; leaning back against it, feeling the rough wood against his shoulders.  Marcus had given him a chamber high up in one of the towers; isolated and quiet, like his quarters at Skyhold except for…

…Cullen felt a breeze on his face, opening his eyes and looking upwards he smiled; the tension in his muscles loosening and dissolving.  One whole corner of the roof had been removed, giving an uninterrupted view of the clear desert sky; freshly done, judging by the clean sawmarks and plaster dust on the floor

_Maker… bless him!_

###

“Planning your next book?” Hawke asked, as he joined Varric on the ramparts.  The Dwarf stared down at the bustling in the courtyards below; apparently deep in thought

“Why not?  ‘Swords and Shields’ seems to be popular suddenly, Maker only knows why! Maybe I should have another go at romance” He chuckled “This one practically writes itself; mysterious desert location fraught with danger, the fate of empires in the balance, a secret, forbidden love…”

“Except it’s no secret that the Lord Inquisitor is polishing his Commander’s longsword on a nightly basis…” Hawke interjected “I’ll be leaving tomorrow, heading up to Adamant with the advance scouts.  Too many Templars round here for my liking…”

Varric grunted; he loved Hawke like a brother but there were times…

“Don’t be too quick to assume what Red’s plans are; maybe he’s the one who can finally get the Mages and the Templars talking to one another…” He took a mouthful of wine and swilled it around for a bit before continuing “…besides, with all the weird magic shit that’s happening at the moment, even you have to admit that a few juiced-up Templars on our side is going to come in handy.”

Hawke let out his breath in a long, weary sigh

“I hope you’re right Varric, about the Templars and Trevelyan; I like him and he’s got a hard road ahead of him but…” he lowered his head; recalling Bethany’s terror, Anders’s rage “I can’t let anyone drag us back to the way things were... you know that.”

“That’s not Red’s style, trust me.  That kid’s gonna end up surprising all of us, if the demon army doesn’t gut us first.” He patted Hawke on the shoulder “Now, lets go find some more wine… should the hero be ‘tall and sinewy’ or ‘lean and sinewy’?”

“Hmmmm” Hawke bit his lip in thought “Tall and sinewy, definitely, makes him sound like a great fuck…”

Varric shook his head in amused dismay

“I gotta stop asking you for literary advice…”

“No, listen; I know this guy in Markham…” Hawke put his arm around Varric as the two wandered off in search of more drink “He can do illustrations that would curl your chest-hair…”


	11. On the Eve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in the Western Approach on the eve of the march on Adamant. No particular spoilers.  
> In the wake of the Fereldan Blight a young Ser Cullen, fresh from his ordeal at Kinloch Hold, arrives in Kirkwall and encounters the woman who will become his trusted mentor  
> Ten years later, as Marcus prepares to leave Griffon Wing Keep and join the Inquisition forces advancing on Adamant Fortress, Cullen and Alistair find time for a heart-to-heart chat and a bit of swordplay into the bargain.  
> Back at Skyhold, Leliana receives some unexpected and unwelcome news that could have serious implications for Marcus and Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> Reference to violence, psychological torture, drug-use and drug withdrawal.  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:31 Dragon: The Gallows, Kirkwall City.**

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Knight-Commander Meredith said, noticing how the young Knight stared out of the window facing toward the city.  Her words called Cullen back to the present and the long, narrow room the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall used as her office.  In truth, his mind had been far away, locked in a dark place, and the grey stone walls felt like they were closing in on him.  The blue patch of sky he could see over the city was the one thing stopping him from screaming.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am” he drew himself back to full attention “I should have been listening.”

Meredith permitted the boy one of her rare smiles.  She stood and walked over to the window, beckoning him to join her.  The Grand Chantry dominated the city’s skyline, matched only by the pinnacles of the Viscount’s Keep.  It loomed, rather than soared; a heavy, angular building banded with red and white marble in the old Tevinter style.

“It’s the oldest in Southern Thedas, and the largest until they completed the Grand Cathedral” Meredith told him “When the slaves rose up, they tore down the palaces of the Magisters and used the stones to build the Chantry.”

Even eight centuries on, Kirkwall’s past as a Tevinter slave-city still hung over it; from the stones used to raise its Chantry to the old slaver’s fortress, aptly named The Gallows, that now housed Kirkwall’s Circle and Commandery.  Even on the hottest day the walls felt cold and clammy, the cramped chambers and galleries suffocating in their closeness.  Somewhere in his mind Cullen wondered if this were still a game of the demons, some new ploy to break his spirit.

His ordeal hadn’t ended with the death of the abominations; his release from Uldred’s cage led only to new imprisonment.  A Seeker had been sent to determine the truth and the sole captured Templar to survive bore his full scrutiny.  A Templar suspected of complicity with abominations could not expect gentle treatment.  If guilt could be proven, his living body would be consigned to the flames; with the pious wish that reflecting on Andraste’s sacrifice as he burned would win him the Maker’s mercy.

He couldn’t remember how long it had lasted; deprived of sufficient food, water, sleep or Lyrium, dragged from his cell at any hour to face more questions, more painful, humiliating physical examinations.  Always the same questions again and again; in ever changing order and different wordings, designed to catch him in a lie.  It was plain that the stern-faced Seeker Ruthven did not believe him, even though Cullen knew his words were the truth and that the Maker defended the honest heart.  By the end he doubted if he knew what was true anymore; craving only food, sleep and, most of all, Lyrium.  It had taken all his strength not to soil himself the day his cell door opened and two armoured Templars instructed him to follow them, convinced they were leading him to the pyre; instead, Seeker Ruthven informed him of his transfer to Kirkwall and ordered him to prepare for an immediate departure.

On the journey to Kirkwall he learned the Divine had vetoed any extreme measures against the Ferelden Circle; no Annulment, no Tranquillity.  The Fereldan Crown ‘valued’ the service that Mages had given in the defence of the realm and so the laxness of Mages and Templars alike would be overlooked; the suffering and death of good, loyal, men forgotten.  The weakness and unfairness of it made him sick and angry, it would be like it never happened…

“...Fereldan refugees still in the city” He hadn’t realised Meredith was still speaking “Many of them likely to be apostates, taking advantage of the chaos to hide themselves in the worst slums of Lowtown.  Do you have any qualms about rooting them out?”

“I know the crimes Mages are capable of, Ma’am” he replied in a resolute tone “You will not have cause to doubt my dedication.”

“No… I don’t believe I will” Meredith turned to examine the new Knight-Recruit in the light from the window.  He was young, but there was a gauntness about him and a coldness of manner making him seem older than his years.  His eyes were unusual, an amber colour that made her wonder if he had any Elvhen ancestry; apparently it wasn’t uncommon in some parts of Western Ferelden although it was not something families ever spoke of, especially if they had Chantry affiliations.  There was a quality to their expression that was familiar to her.  He had seen horrors, and they had made him strong.

Seeker Ruthven was a fool, unable to recognize strength when it was right in front of him, and a weak fool at that.  Ferelden Circle should have been Annulled, regardless of any political considerations.  That the Divine would bow to secular concerns in such a matter was proof that corruption infested even the highest levels of the Chantry; Maker willing, the situation would not endure much longer and righteous souls would rise to purge the nations of the curse of magic once and for all. 

She walked back to her desk and picked up some papers.

“This is Seeker Ruthven’s verdict on you” she crumpled them up and threw them into the fire “It does not concern me.  Kirkwall is the Forge of the Maker, where the strong are made pure and the weak consumed.  I am not interested in what you were, only in the man you will become here.  Do you have the will, and the strength, to do His work; no matter what it costs?”

“I am here to serve, Knight-Commander” Cullen squared his shoulders, Meredith’s words giving him hope for redemption “Where you lead, I shall follow.”

Meredith nodded, favouring the young knight with another smile

“Of that, I have no doubt.  Report to the Knight-Bursar, he will assign you quarters.”

Ser Cullen dismissed, Knight-Commander Meredith returned to the window and looked across the harbour at the city perched around the bay.  Lowtown was at least more honest, it showed its corruption openly; didn’t conceal it behind marble walls and silken gowns, fair words cloaking poison and deceit. There was a hard struggle ahead and she needed good men and women, who could be forged into blades of the Maker’s will.  Kirkwall stood on the edge of a precipice, apostates and blood mages lurked in slum and sewer, the foul Qunari still loitered and spread their blasphemous religion without hindrance; rumour said that even Lord Seamus, the Viscount’s heir, listened to their ravings. 

Fortunately, it was not Dumar who ruled; he owed his crown to her and she could take it from him just as readily as she did his predecessor.  Only Grand Cleric Elthina, theoretically, could overrule her; but the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall was weak, too committed to compromise for her to be a real opponent. 

With the right people by her side, the true power in Kirkwall would be the Templar Order.  This was a gift from the Maker and, with His grace, she would use it to turn this wicked city into a beacon of righteousness that all Thedas would look to for the truth.

**9:41 Dragon: The Western Approach**

“I never believed the stories about it glowing in the dark.  What do you think causes it?”

It wasn’t much of a glow, you could hardly see it at first; but, as you looked deeper into the Abyssal Rift, the shimmering green light that flickered in the depths and along the edges of the broken, charred, rocks became more evident until eventually you couldn’t stop seeing it.

Alistair took a final draw on his cheroot and flicked the stub into the Rift, watching the tiny red pinprick vanish into the darkness.  He’d picked up the habit from a Tevinter Warden some years ago, less fuss than a pipe.  It was dangerous to wander this far from the Keep at night, but the march to Adamant began tomorrow and this might be the last chance they got to see this phenomenon.  The Keep was alive with music and laughter; Lord Marcus throwing a feast for the local chiefs in a complex ritual of hospitality to ensure their alliance, and ongoing co-operation with the remaining garrison.

“Those chaps from the university say it’s a ‘natural phosphorescence’ caused by sulphur in the rocks and decaying animal matter...” He pulled his gaze away from the hypnotic glow and stared out towards the horizon “The locals simply call it The Light of Hell, I’m more inclined to agree with them...”

Cullen grunted in amusement

“Solas would no doubt say it was a thinning of the Veil, caused by the long ages of violence and bloodshed in this place, and then a lot of stuff about the Fade that would just give me a headache.”

Solas gave him a headache, full stop! Even Leliana hadn’t been able to unravel that enigma. He wasn’t Dalish, and definitely not a city Elf; claimed to be a self-taught apostate and yet had mastered a style of Elvhen fresco painting believed lost with the fall of Halamshiral. If asked, Solas would probably start explaining how it had been taught to him by spirits of the Fade and, after five minutes, Cullen would need to go and have a lie down somewhere quiet with a damp cloth over his eyes.

“He’s a strange one.” Alistair agreed “Apart from being a bald Elf, and not trying to make me cry every five minutes, he reminds me a bit of Morrigan...”

Damn! He shouldn’t have mentioned her; brought back too many shabby memories. That was the problem with this place, it made him think of how Ferelden might have been if they hadn’t stopped the Archdemon, reminded him of what they might still be facing if they were defeated at Adamant. Cullen didn’t seem to notice, lost in his own thoughts; he probably wouldn’t even know who she was.  That one time he saw her, he wasn’t really taking too much in…

“Do you think this is another Blight?” Cullen asked eventually, voicing the fear that lurked in the back of all their minds “A Darkspawn Magister, an Archdemon, Wardens hearing the Calling…”

Alistair shook his head

“It doesn’t _feel_ like it; I mean all the ingredients are here, but they’re not making soup. I would’ve expected Darkspawn, lots of them.  All we’ve seen are a handful of scattered raiding parties…”

Cullen chuckled slightly at the old Fereldan expression.  He’d not heard it for years.

“You think Corypheus has something else in mind?”

Alistair thought about that for a moment.  Erimond had called the Blight a tool, and Corypheus its Master.  It that was true, then why was he having to resort to false Callings and demon armies when he should be able to unleash a Blight of the same magnitude as the first?  Perhaps what Erimond had said _was_ the truth, that Corypheus wanted to rule rather than destroy; Gods need worshippers after all.  The ancient Magister’s vanity might just be the thing giving them a chance of victory.

“Lord Marcus seems to think this is all connected back to the Fereldan Blight, maybe even before…” he said, eventually, lighting up another cheroot “He might be right.  It’s funny, when you think about it, all of us here have some connection to it.  Even you…”

_Shit_

Ever since their first, awkward-friendly, conversation at Skyhold, Alistair had carefully avoided the subject of Cullen’s experiences during the Blight and Cullen had hardly rushed to talk about it.  He’d stuck his foot in the water now, though, might as well wade in and hope nothing got bitten off…

“I wanted to take you with us, when we left Kinloch Hold; you were my friend, I didn’t want to leave you there” He paused and took a long draw on his cigar “The others… they weren’t eager.  I’ve never been too good at getting my own way.  You’ve probably noticed…  I’m sorry”

He winced inwardly at how weak and pathetic that sounded; abandoning Cullen to the mercy of the Order because his new companions didn’t want him tagging along…  Morrigan had summed up their feelings in her own blunt, cruel, way ‘A half-mad Templar frightened by shadows? Other than throwing him at Darkspawn to delay them a moment, what use would he be?’

“I would not have gone with you… nor would you have wanted me with you” Cullen replied quietly, still staring deep into the phosphorescence as if seeing images of his past there “I… was not myself; I was sick… sick in my head for a long time after that; Kirkwall only made it worse, made me worse.  The things I’ve done, the crimes I complied with because I believed them justified… sometimes I wonder if I deserve a second chance….”

“Lady Cassandra seems to think so…” Alistair said “…and Lord Marcus definitely believes that you do; I do, as well, if that means anything…”

“Marcus and Cassandra see the man I’m trying to be; perhaps that makes them too quick to forgive the man I was…”  He accepted the cheroot from Alistair.  It wasn’t a habit he’d ever picked up, but there were times when the feel and taste of the smoke in his mouth was oddly soothing “Hawke’s sister died because of me; he took her to the Deep Roads to escape me and she died of Blight there… they were more afraid of me than of the Darkspawn.  I ignored what they were doing to the Tranquil, to _apprentices_ , slaughtered Mages at the battle of the Gallows, innocent and guilty alike; it was only when she ordered us to kill the Champion that I finally said no... That’s the man I was; Meredith’s _fucking_ Mabari!”

Alistair blinked slightly at hearing Cullen swear; for all the man’s ferocious temper he rarely, if ever, cursed.  He remembered Hawke telling him the story, and about the sheer effort of will it had taken for him not to gut Cullen and feed him alive to the rats the next time he saw him.  If he recalled the tale correctly, it had been on that journey to the Deep Roads that they first discovered Red Lyrium; the idol that drove Knight-Commander Meredith insane.  Perhaps Marcus was right; this was all part of one long, twisted, tale with much left in the telling.  If he still believed, he might see the Maker’s Hand in all this.

“Cassandra and Marcus have faith, _real_ faith, they understand repentance; and you do too, otherwise what you did wouldn’t hurt so much.  They see that you’re trying to remake yourself every day; despite the pain…”  he took the stub of the cigar back from Cullen, who was now looking at him intently “I lost what faith I had when I saw what the Darkspawn did at Denerim, maybe I never had that much to begin with, and Wardens don’t get second chances…”

“Al… that’s not true” Cullen tried hard to stop his voice cracking as he spoke “There’s always a place for you with the Inquisition, with us…”

“Until the Calling comes for real?” Alistair laughed “Thank you, but you’ll have an easier time with Teagan and Anora if I’m not around; besides, you already have Blackwall and he’s three times the Warden I’ll ever be!”

“But you’re my friend…” Cullen objected softly, and something about his voice reminded Alistair of the boys they’d been all those years ago.  He put his hand on Cullen’s shoulder

“We’ll always be friends, Cull; but our paths parted long ago.  I’m just glad they’ve crossed, even if it’s only for now…” Their eyes met; to the untrained ear, there was no change in the noises of the night –  sounds of revelry from the Keep, sands shifting in the breeze, the distant call of a nocturnal bird.  Alistair’s voice dropped to a low whisper “…on the count of three; one… two…”

Cullen drew his sword as he spun, in a single fluid move, and blocked the Hurlock’s strike; punching the creature hard in the stomach and twisting to one side to avoid its toxic spittle.  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alistair drive the boss of his shield into the other Hurlock’s face as his blade hacked through the sinews of its knee.  A typical small raiding party, two Hurlocks and an Alpha; the Alpha lumbering towards them, swinging a vicious-looking war-maul.  The Hurlock leapt towards him again, hissing with rage; Cullen gripped his sword with both hands, driving it up under the creature’s jaw, splitting its skull, wrenching his weapon free as he kicked the Darkspawn back into the path of the approaching Alpha.

Alistair finished his Hurlock with a hard slash to the throat, leaving its head hanging by a scrap of skin and sinew.  Both men hefted their swords and, nodding at each other, began moving to flank the Alpha…

###

…The men cheered as Cullen and Alistair returned to the feast, bloodied and dusty from the fight, the cheer increasing in volume as they laid the Alpha’s helm and war-maul on steps the dais where Marcus and the Chiefs sat

“A trophy for your guests, my Lord” Cullen said, half-smiling “and an apology for our absence…”

The eldest of the chiefs, a sharp-featured old man with startlingly bright grey eyes, turned to Marcus as he applauded

“Is this a custom of your people, Your Worship?”

“It’s a custom of my Commander” Marcus shook his head with amused exasperation “He’s… uncomfortable without a sword in his hand”

“I approve!” the chief laughed, “One must be vigilant at all times; but the Commander should remember that the Maker of All created hands for more than just fighting…”

It was a shame these _Quisiti_ mages did not marry, the chief thought, this fire-haired young Mage Lord would make a fine son-in-law; but perhaps it was for the best, he was not blind to the glances that passed between the Lord and the Commander of his warriors and a marriage-offer might well have created an unacceptably embarrassing situation…

“If we might trespass on your patience a little longer, my Lords” Cullen continued “We should bathe before re-joining your company…”

“ _Do_ let me know if you need a hand scrubbing anything…” Dorian called, cheerfully “especially those finicky, hard-to-reach places!”

“I’m sure we can manage” Cullen laughed.  He’d long become accustomed to Dorian’s habit of flirting blithely with anyone within earshot, the man was worse than Marcus; he was convinced Dorian would flirt with, and drop innuendos at, his own reflection if there were no-one else around.  Alistair still blushed furiously every time though; some things, at least, had never changed.

“I’ve no doubt you can!” Dorian called back, then leaned across to Marcus; his voice dropping to a sly whisper “Perhaps you should have them chaperoned?  I’ve heard that _strange things_ can happen in steam-baths…” 

“And I’m reasonably certain you’ve done most of them…” Marcus chuckled in response

“ _Most_ of them?” Dorian exclaimed in mock affront “My dear Inquisitor, I think I’ve added a few to the list…”

###

Cullen gasped as the cold water hit his skin, shaking his head like a dog, and passed the dipper to Alistair.

“Is today the first time we’ve drawn sword together, for real…?” he asked as Alistair gritted his teeth in preparation for dousing himself in freezing water.  Apparently, this improved the circulation; he wasn’t sure if the hammam was an efficient way of keeping clean in a desert climate, with minimal water wastage, or a very refined form of torture.

“I think so” Alistair replied, as soon as he got his breath back “It was… fun”

It had been fun, the two of them whooping like boys as they cut the Alpha down together.  In a corner of his mind he wished that Duncan had recruited Cullen as well, but the younger Templar had already taken his vows; Ser Gregoire had postponed Alistair’s vigil, deeming him still too ‘facetious’ for such a serious step so, instead of Lyrium addiction, he’d got the Taint.  Was that better or worse?  Old Grey Wardens were a rarity, usually men or women recruited later in life, most never made it past their mid-40s if they didn’t die in battle first.  From what Cullen said, fighting the addiction could still kill him or drive him mad; there was little pattern to the severity of the symptoms and the struggle took a heavy toll on his constitution.  Then there were the nightmares…  It didn’t look as if either of them were going to make old bones, even if they survived Adamant.  Poor Lord Marcus…

“She only spoke about you once…” he said, eventually. Cullen turned his head to look at him, he didn’t need to ask who ‘she’ was “She didn’t blame you for the things you said, the way you reacted to her… she could see you weren’t in your right mind.  She said… she said she hoped you might find some peace eventually.  Have you?”

Cullen stared at the floor in silence.  He could barely recall Solona, if truth be told, only the faintest memories of her face and the obscene abuse he hurled at her when they found him in the Tower; but it mattered to him, hearing that at least she had understood and wished him well…

“I don’t know… perhaps I never will; but I can hope for it now and that’s more than I ever could before…”

“You’re lucky to have Marcus; a man can find real strength in a love like that…” He laughed at the look Cullen gave him.  He wasn’t _that_ naïve; even in puritanical Ferelden, the handsome young Templar novice had fended off the _interest_ of some of the Knights “Cull, you don’t need to pretend; I’ve travelled enough around Orlais and the Free Marches to know about these things.  Never really bothered me anyway; just always thought it sounded a bit _uncomfortable_ …”

Cullen grinned suddenly, despite his reputation as being humourless he had a dry wit of his own and enjoyed a good jest in the right mood; just now, he damn well needed one…

“Well…” he said, gesturing evocatively with his hands “It’s not too bad as long as you…”

Alistair screwed his eyes shut and clamped his fists against his ears

“LALALALALALALALALA…”

###

“This arrived for you a few minutes ago, Sister Nightingale” the servant handed the message to Leliana and bowed to the two women before leaving.  Leliana cracked the seal and unfolded the paper as Josephine poured more tea.  The Lady Ambassador noticed the way her friend pursed her lips and frowned; clearly whatever it said was unwelcome.

“Is it from the Inquisitor?” She asked, anxiously; all Skyhold was on edge, awaiting news from the west “Nothing bad, I hope?”

Leliana shook her head

“Just an update from one of my agents elsewhere, I’ll deal with it later” She refolded the message and slipped it into the pouch at her belt “Now, tell me more about the Marquise de Solanges…”

It was clearly more than that, Josephine could tell, but it was also pointless to try and push Leliana if she was unwilling to share.  Hopefully whatever this was wouldn’t cause too many diplomatic repercussions….

“Well, it appears that the Marquise and the Chevalier de Jiffry…”

Leliana allowed the latest gossip from Val Royeaux to flow over her, background music to her thought process as she considered the implications of what she’d just read.  Only a few words, numbers and letters, meaningless to anyone ignorant of the cipher, but with dangerously unpredictable consequences…

_Anders spotted in Kirkwall, meeting with agent of Watch Commander Vallen. Suspect unknown third party also observing. Please advise.  Tanner_

 


	12. They Merely Fade Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Major Spoiler Alert***  
> This chapter is set during Here Lies the Abyss and contains major spoilers for the event in that part of the game.  
> ***A Note on Dates***  
> There is no fixed chronology to the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition beyond them all being set in the year 9:41 Dragon. In ‘real’ terms, the journeys undertaken by the Inquisitor and his party, to say nothing of the movements of armies, would take days or weeks depending on the distance. It is therefore plausible to assume that the war against Corypheus and his allies would stretch well into 9:42 Dragon.  
> To maintain a consistent chronology (and satisfy personal pedantry), I have made the assumption that the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes takes place early in the first month of the year, Verimensis (Wintermarch in common parlance), based on the extreme winter conditions still persisting high in the Frostback Mountains. The siege of Adamant is placed in the ninth month, Parvulis (Kingsway in common parlance); this allows about eight and a half months for the key events leading to this point to have taken place – just about feasible given the distances involved. Future chapters will be dated accordingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> Character death, violence, referenced violence, referenced/implied torture. Strong language.  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**The story so far…**

**Led by Lord Marcus and Commander Cullen, the Inquisition lays siege to Adamant Fortress where the Grey Warden mages, beguiled by Lord Erimond, are raising the army of demons that Corypheus intends to let loose on the Orlesian Empire.  Breaching the gates, the Inquisition forces are locked in a vicious battle with the demons and the enthralled mages as Marcus and his companions, together with Hawke and Alistair, race to the Grand Court to stop the deadly plan before it’s too late.**

**Interrupting a ceremony intended to bind Corypheus’s demon ally, the Nightmare, to Warden Commander Clarel; Marcus manages to sow the seed of doubt in Clarel’s mind and she turns on Erimond.  Seeing his plan faltering the Magister calls on his master’s Archdemon, the same monstrous dragon that destroyed Haven, and unleashes it on his opponents.  As the Grey Warden warriors join forces with the Inquisition soldiers in battling the demons now spilling through the rift in the Grand Court, Marcus and his companions chase after Clarel as she pursues Erimond through the blazing fortress.**

**High on a griffon weyr at the edge of the Abyssal Rift the dragon corners them, advancing for the kill, until the mortally wounded and dying Clarel uses her own blood to unleash a final powerful blast of magical force that hurls the beast over the edge; but also causes the ancient stonework to crumble beneath their feet; catching them in the collapse and sending them falling into the abyss.  In desperation, Marcus uses the Anchor to open a Rift and, together with his companions, plunges physically into the Fade.**

**Lost in the shifting world of spirits and demons and trying to escape back to the physical world, all the while being hunted by Nightmare and its brood, they are guided back to the Rift in the Great Court by a spirit that might just be the soul of Divine Justinia V; lingering in the Fade in an attempt to thwart Corypheus’s insane aspirations.  Along the way, Marcus finds himself regaining his memories of what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes and eventually they come within sight of the Rift in the Grand Court.  Marcus’s companions make it through but Marcus, Alistair and Hawke find their path blocked by Nightmare and must battle their way out; a battle not all of them will survive…**

**Verimensis (Wintermarch) 9:41 Dragon: The Temple of Sacred Ashes/Haven**

_‘The demons! Quickly…”_

_The ground was wrong… above him… below him… twisting and shifting under his feet, over his head...    He stumbled forward, keeping a firm hold on the woman’s hand, hearing the noises close behind… chittering and scrabbling… the horde of spider-things chasing after them, flowing over the unreal landscape like a hellish tide_

_Divine Justinia V cursed softly as the gold-encrusted robe tangled her feet, tripping and stumbling; the young man who’d found her grabbed her round the waist to keep her from falling.  Looking up in gratitude, something caught her eye; a broken, crazily-angled stairway, at the top…_

_“There!” she pointed “A way out…”_

_…Only yards to go, they would make it! Marcus ran; half leading, half-dragging the Divine behind him.  There was light ahead, real light, they would… he turned his head as she tugged at his hand. The things had caught them, clawing and pulling at her heavy vestments, her nails tearing the skin of his wrist as her hand slipped from his grasp.  He tried to keep hold, they were so near. It couldn’t happen now… not like this!_

_Their eyes met; frantic encouragement in his, resigned despair in hers…  He pulled, tried to haul her towards safety… her fingers releasing their grip_

_“Go!” she cried “Warn them…!”_

_He hesitated, but there were too many to fight; surging towards him, venom dripping from their quivering mandibles._

_“I’m sorry…” was all he managed to say before she vanished from sight and he sprinted towards the light ahead; spinning, falling, tumbling until he landed roughly on a flat, cold surface.  Dazed, he pushed himself to his knees and something hit him in the face…_

_…they’d stripped him, searched him, thrown him these stale clothes to wear; questions being shouted, blows to his head and body.  Nothing made sense, like great chunks had been ripped from his mind.  No memory of where or when he was; only that he was surrounded by people determined to hurt him, to make him name names…  Like they did the last time…  He had to be strong, he’d promised, he wouldn’t give in…_

_Not again… not again… please, I can’t take any more of this…_

The back of his head cracked hard against the stone floor; a hand grabbing roughly at his throat, hauling him upright

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you right now…!”

Armoured men stood around… waiting to take their turns, to see how loud they could make him scream.  It was a woman shouting at him, her spittle spraying his face… but there hadn’t been any women Templars at Ostwick, had there?  The stern-faced men, they weren’t in Templar armour; who were they? _Where_ were they?

“Tell me what this is…” the woman yelled, forcing the palm of his hand into his face; the heavy iron manacles cutting deep into his wrists.  A sickly green fire burned in the lines, pain stabbing up his arm as it glowed and crackled.  The light, it was familiar, where had he seen it before?

“I… I don’t know…” he stammered; feeling the urine running down his inner thigh “Please… I don’t…”

He twisted his face to one side as the woman clenched her fist, ready to strike him again…

“Cassandra, stop…” This was a new voice; Orlesian, refined, almost pleasant “we need him”

Those three words scared him more than anything else.  The speaker crouched down so their eyes were on a level; a pale-skinned woman in the habit of a lay-sister, strands of red hair escaping from under her cowl.  Her eyes were cold, hard, and Marcus began to tremble uncontrollably; the dark-haired woman would only kill him, this one would have him begging for death…

“Think carefully” she said quietly “Tell me what you remember…”

Marcus searched desperately through the scattered, broken, images jostling around his head.  It felt like this woman was giving him a chance, but only one…

“There were thi… things… things in the mist, chasing me” something else, something important “A woman… helping me?”

“A woman?” The lay-sister’s brow furrowed, then smoothed as she appeared to come to a decision.  She turned to the dark-haired woman “Meet me at the Breach, bring all the soldiers you can.”

Cassandra hauled the red-headed man to his feet as Leliana left the dungeon.  The interruption had given her the chance to calm and centre herself a little.  He was younger than she had first realised, little more than a boy, and plainly terrified.  That meant nothing; guilty or innocent, he would feel the same fear in these circumstances but she could see the confusion in his eyes, a bewilderment that gave her pause.  Survival should not be assumed as automatic evidence of guilt but there was that mark on his hand, and questions only he could answer…

“Please…” he begged, almost crying from the burning in his arm, “What’s going on?”

Cassandra sighed and moved him towards the door

“It… it would be easier for me to show you”

**Parvulis (Kingsway) 9:41 Dragon: Adamant Fortress**

 “We can do this!” Marcus growled between clenched teeth, the Spirit Blade flaring and sparking in his grasp. Here, in the Fade, it glowed with a white heat; almost painful to look at.  Hawke and Alistair glanced at each other.  Neither entirely shared the younger man’s conviction they could slice their way past the Nightmare crouching in their path but, if they were going to escape from this place, their options were limited.

From one angle, it looked like a massive spider but that was no more its true shape than any of the others their minds gave it. The nebulous, ever shifting, tides of the Fade gave their thoughts form and the demon’s appearance moved and changed from one moment to the next as it fed on their secret fears.

Hawke adjusted his grip on the long-bladed, rune-encrusted, knives in his hands and took a deep breath.

“Let’s do this!” He yelled, charging towards the thing...

….Marcus ducked as a claw struck out at his face, sweeping the blade round in a glowing arc.  The creature shrieked, bubbling in pain, as the severed limb fell to the ground; shrivelling and dissolving into a rancid green mist. Alistair slashing at the demon’s mouthparts, acid spittle hissing and smoking as it hit his shield; Hawke’s knives spinning and flickering, striking again and again at the multifaceted eyes.

 _We might just do this after all_ ; Hawke thought.  They didn’t have to kill it, he wasn’t even sure they could, but all they had to do was hurt it enough to make it back off so they could make it to the Rift.  The Inquisition forces battling the demons and enthralled Mages on the far side couldn’t hold out forever. The Herald of Andraste, the Champion of Kirkwall and the Warden who help end the Blight; if they couldn’t do this then...

“Hawke!” Marcus raced over to the Champions prone body.  Seconds after Hawke ripped one of its eyes clean open in a spray of tissue and vitreous fluid, a surprise blow from the retreating demon struck him in the midriff; sending him flying to land in a crumpled heap on the ground, clutching at his stomach. The man was barely conscious; the Nightmare’s talons had ripped through his armour and torn deep into his guts, blood welling up between his fingers.  The demon drew back a little way, leaving them a clear path, but its wounds were rapidly knitting shut, its surface rippling as it spawned a host of offspring to help punish the three nasty little boys who’d dared to hurt it.

Alistair winced at the sight of Hawke’s wound. He might have a chance if they got him through the Rift and to a healer, but the demon was recovering fast and its brood of fast-growing nightmares already moving towards them. They were out of time and choices.

“Get him out of here...” Alistair ordered “and close that Rift as soon as you’re through. If those things break into our world we’re done for.”

“Alastair, this is suicide; I can’t...” Marcus objected, refusing to give up hope that all of them could make it. “We can still…”

Alistair’s laugh lacked any suggestion of humour

“Don’t make me conscript you, Marcus, that would just be embarrassing for both of us. This is how it always ends for a Warden, alone against the dark…” Hawke cried out in pain as Alistair and Marcus dragged him to his feet, hooking his arm around the younger man’s neck “Now go, while there’s still time!”

Alistair pushed Marcus hard between the shoulder blades, sending him staggering toward the Rift as he struggled to support Hawke

“Look after Cullen…” he shouted, before turning and charging at the advancing demons…

Marcus stumbled forwards, using the momentum of the push to keep him moving.  Hawke was losing blood fast and barely able to move his legs, crying out in pain at each step.  Marcus could feel his knees buckling as more of Hawkes weight came to rest on his shoulders.  The Champion of Kirkwall was taller than him, solidly built, and close to passing out.  The Rift looked like it was only yards away, but distance in the Fade was proving hard to judge.

“Lea… leave me…” Hawke gasped “Go… I… I’ll never make it…”

Marcus pulled Hawke’s free arm tighter round his neck, ignoring his agonized groan, forcing his feet to keep moving

“Not! Gonna! Happen!” he grunted, adjusting his grip to stop Hawke from tripping and falling “Varric would flay me alive…”

He could feel it like a tugging in the pit of his stomach, the Rift was drawing them in like iron-shavings towards lodestone as mist swirled up around his legs; an insistent, persistent, pull growing ever stronger. Was this what the spirits felt? The thing that pulled them from the Fade and spilled them into the waking World?  If they survived, this would make for a fascinating conversation with Solas.  It wasn’t mist, he realised; the ground was dissolving, becoming less substantial as they got nearer until suddenly they were falling, plunging through the disintegrating material of the Fade as the Great Court of Adamant Fortress solidified around them; chaos and fire under the starlit sky…

Marcus landed hard on his belly, arms raised to protect his face and head from the grey stone slabs rushing towards him, air knocked from his lungs in a single pained bellow as Hawke’s full weight crashed down on top of him.  He pushed the Champion off him and staggered to his feet, stabbing pains in his chest telling him that more than one rib had been broken in the fall…

Even with the Grey Warden warriors now fighting at their side, the Inquisition forces could barely hold their own against the army of demons swarming over the walls and courtyards of Adamant Fortress; the air was hot with magic, rank with the stench of blood and shit, as men and monsters tore at each other in a relentless struggle.  If Nightmare and its brood reached the Rift then the everything was lost.  Marcus looked towards the great tear in reality, hanging in the middle of the Grand Court; hearing the clicking and chittering of the advancing demons and hoping to see a red-haired figure come plunging through even as his hand raised and he felt the gathering force thundering up from his feet….

“Alistair, I’m sorry…”

The pain was almost unbearable; like the marrow of his bones turning to liquid fire as the Anchor blazed and currents of raw power surged from his hand towards the Rift, pulling and tugging at every muscle and sinew until it felt like a million red-hot hooks were tearing him to pieces.  The Rift puckered and folded, closing in on itself, the demons shrieking and twisting as their animating force was wrenched back into the fade; leaving only the scraps of putrescent matter from which they wove their physical forms.  Marcus howled in agony, certain his arm would be torn from its socket, as the Rift imploded with a hideous sucking noise; the power of the recoil throwing him halfway across the courtyard.

He was scarcely aware of being lifted to his feet, shards of pain shivering through his limbs, the soldiers of the Inquisition unsure whether to cheer or fall to their knees.  They’d heard the stories of the Herald emerging from the Fade at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, guided by the hand of Andraste Herself; now they were witnesses to a new miracle.  The Herald had brought his companions, living, from the Fade and banished an army of demons with a clench of his fist.

Questions came at him from all sides, anxious, eager, a babble of sound his brain couldn’t process; Marcus could feel his legs giving way, pain and darkness closing in; falling forward until strong hands caught him under his arms, a familiar voice slicing through the hubbub

“Stand back, all of you!  Give the Inquisitor room…!” Cullen pulled Marcus upright, steadying him on his feet “Maker!  We heard you’d been killed; that the Archdemon had…”

Cull was talking to him; Marcus concentrated on that one certainty to pull his fractured awareness back together. The Commander was still holding him up; searching his face with an anxious, almost disbelieving gaze, as if trying to determine if he were real or not.

“Cull… you’re hurt…” he raised his hand to where Cullen’s breastplate had been torn from its straps; a deep, bloody, rent in the tunic beneath.

“It’s nothing, a scratch…” Cullen assured him “What about you, are you…?”

_Please, dear Maker; don’t let him be possessed..._

“I’m fine… Cullen, I’m fine; I promise” His thoughts were coming together, clarity and order re-asserting themselves.  These moments after closing a Rift were always hazy and confused, like being woken suddenly from a deep sleep, but this was a hundred times worse than anything he’d experienced before; no longer certain where the borders between reality and nightmare lay… 

He could stand, that was a start, although he kept a firm grasp of Cullen’s arm in case his knees gave out again.  The pains in his chest and back were re-asserting themselves and that helped him focus; he was still the leader of this army…

“Give… give me our status…” he managed to gasp out. Cullen exhaled a small sigh of relief; this was safe familiar ground and he swiftly summarised their situation.  The Inquisition forces had taken heavy losses, but without the Warden warriors coming over to their side it would have been much worse.  With the demons dragged back into the fade, the Warden mages were laying down their staffs; apparently no longer under Corypheus’s thrall.  Hawke was still alive, barely, and with the healers but…

“Where is Ser Alistair?” A voice, gruff and hoarse with exhaustion and stress, cut across Cullen’s report; one of the Wardens, his armour streaked with blood and dust approached “No-one of command rank is left alive, my Lord; someone has to take charge…”

“He’s dead!” Marcus hissed; feeling Cullen flinch beside him, hearing his anguished intake of breath.  Speaking the words tore at his guts; Alistair was dead; that sad, good-hearted, man he’d been honoured to call a friend and who was worth a thousand of these men put together.  Anger gave him the strength he needed and he stepped forward, letting go of Cullen’s arm, his voice growing in power to echo off the stones of the Court; reducing all others to silence…

“Ser Alistair is dead, because of your idiocy!  He sacrificed himself to save you… to save all of us… from the nightmare on the other side of that rift.  He was the only one of you who stood against this madness and you branded him traitor for it!”  It was becoming harder to breathe; he coughed, and tasted blood in his mouth, but he had to keep going “I should send the lot of you marching back to Weisshaupt to answer for this, but with the good men we’ve lost today we need your swords. Until this is over, the Wardens of Orlais serve the Inquisition; you’re still vulnerable to Corypheus and his corruption, but there are plenty of other battles where you can reclaim your honour and reputation…”

“My… My Lord!” The Warden stammered, pulling himself to attention and saluting “We will not fail you in this!”

“See that you don’t” Marcus growled, grabbing hold of Cullen’s arm again. His chest felt like it was on fire and there was blood on his lips, dizziness rushing up to overwhelm him again as his voice faltered

“Cull… get… get me to the healer” he gasped as he collapsed against the Commander, vision blurring and the last shreds of his strength dissolving “I… I think I’ve punctured a lung…”

###

“You’re awake! Sparkler owes me five Royals…”

Marcus’s eyes flickered open, squinting against the light, as he focussed in on the speaker

“Varric…?” he croaked, voice dry and feeble from disuse; a strong, gentle, hand raised his head and a glass was placed against his lips: water with Elfroot, a hint of Crystal Grace, and something else… “Lyrium?”

“Only a little; An… a Mage I knew used to use this.” the Dwarf informed Marcus as he assisted him to sit, adjusting the pillows behind his back and neck “Helps the body recharge without putting too much strain on the system.”

“Wait…” Marcus shook his head “You were _betting_ on if I’d wake up…?”

“ _When_ , not if…” Varric promised him, hastily “Sparkler said five days, I said three. Of course, he didn’t know about this.”

Varric picked up the flask containing the tonic and slipped it into his coat pocket

Marcus grunted, shifting his position slightly.  His chest and left arm were heavily bandaged; it still hurt if he breathed too deep or moved quickly, but not the searing agony he recalled before passing out.

“I’ve been unconscious for three days?”

“More like two and a half, people were starting to get twitchy” Varric informed him, then dropped his eyes and started tugging awkwardly at the hem of his coat “Thanks… thanks for getting Hawke out; he nearly didn’t make it…”

“Alistair?” Marcus asked; was there even the faintest chance…?  The Dwarf shook his head, still looking down.

“Solas has been doing that freaky Fade-dreaming shit of his but… nothing.  If he’s still alive he’s not… he’s not anywhere we can reach, even if we could…”

Better he was dead; Varric’s skin crawled at the thought of Alistair alive in the grasp of the Nightmare.  Solas didn’t believe a human could survive long in the Fade anyway.  He glanced up to see Marcus staring out of the chamber window, his expression unreadable

 “He said to me…” Marcus cleared his throat and took a deep breath “He said ‘This is how it always ends for a Warden; alone against the dark’”

“Deep Roads or the Fade...” Varric shook his head sadly “Not sure which is worse…”

The Dwarf got to his feet

“I’ll let Curly know you’re awake.  He’s okay, apart from a couple of nasty cuts and bruises; he’s barely left your side except when the healers ordered him back to bed…” Varric patted Marcus’s shoulder with a rueful smile “When are the two of you going to stop pretending?”

“Pretending what?” Marcus attempted to inject some lightness into his voice “Can’t two single, dangerously handsome, men play chess long into the night without all these lewd rumours?”

Varric chuckled as he turned to leave

“I just hope you got a _really_ sturdy chessboard, that’s all!”

Marcus rested his head back against the pile of pillows as Varric closed the door behind him. Almost three days… Maker! It felt like only moments ago he’d collapsed against Cullen in the Great Court, worn out by pain and anger; how much had happened while he’d been… wherever he’d been?  There were no dreams or images he could recall, as if his body had immersed itself in the deepest, dreamless, sleep possible to repair whatever damage had been done in the Fade.  They’d almost made it, the three of them, if it hadn’t been for that one unlucky blow

_I could have abandoned Hawke; got Alistair out…_

No, Alistair would never had allowed that; never have forgiven him if he’d done it.  He’d carried so much pain and regret, the weight of the Calling, perhaps he never intended on leaving the Fade alive…

The door opened, Cullen stood there looking pale and tired but with a smile on his face.  He was at the bedside in two strides; taking Marcus’s face in his hands, kissing him again and again with tears running down his cheeks

“You… you have to stop doing this to me” he stammered out between kisses “It’s becoming a bad habit…”

“I’m sorry, Cull…” Marcus sighed, running his fingers through Cullen’s hair “I tried to get us all out, I truly tried…”

“I know… I know…” Cullen rested his forehead on Marcus’s uninjured shoulder “You would never have abandoned him.  He knew his time had come, I just wish… I wish we’d had a little longer together…”

“I’ll miss him…” Marcus kissed the tip of Cullen’s ear, feeling him begin to shake with grief for his friend “We all will…”

_Last of Calenhad Theirin’s line; Teagan and Anora will sleep easier now…_

“Lie down beside me, Cull…” he whispered, shifting slightly to make room “Let me hold you…”

The two men lay together in silence, finding comfort in closeness; neither of them needing words to express the depth and complexity of their feelings.  Before long, Marcus realised Cullen had slipped into a quiet, peaceful sleep; only the occasional soft snore breaking the silence. He drew the sleeping man gently closer, Cullen mumbling something incoherent and snuggling into the crook of Marcus’s arm.  The last words he’d heard Alistair say were ‘Look after Cullen’

“I’ll take good care of him...” he whispered, looking fondly at his sleeping lover “You have my word...”

###

Weisshaupt wasn’t exactly happy with the Inquisition taking command of the Orlesian Wardens but the messages from the Warden headquarters indicated they were willing to accept the situation given the extreme circumstances.  As the Wardens at Adamant had been on the brink of unleashing an army of demons on Orlais, the First Warden wasn’t inclined to raise serious objections.  The Lord Inquisitor was taking a more understanding position than either the Empress or the Grand Duke would incline to, if the matter came to their attention.

Marcus sighed and pushed the papers away from him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Rylen and Varric had taken the weight of the military and diplomatic busywork while he was unconscious but there were things that only the Inquisitor could attend to. Erimond was in the cells awaiting judgement, the question of the Mage-Wardens and the degree of their culpability still required answering; and then there were the insistent enquiries about what happened in the Fade.

Marcus started down at the Anchor imprinted in his hand; curling tracks of greenish phosphorescence, like the glow of the Abyssal Rift, flowing around the lines of his palm like a faintly luminous tattoo. An accident, not the Maker’s grace or the blessing of Andraste, he’d just happened to be there at the right or wrong time.  No Andraste leading him from the Fade, just an old woman as terrified and bewildered as him; someone else he hadn’t been able to save...

Just an accident but, was it? _Really?_ There were hundreds of Clerics, Templars and Mages at the Temple; hundreds more attendants, servants, guards and hangers on. Why was he the only one to hear the Divine call for help? To be the one to respond? The explosion should have killed him and Justinia instantly, reducing them to smoke and ash, but they’d survived unharmed and Most-Holy had helped him escape; just as she, or her soul or a friendly spirit in her form, had aided him again.

He was thinking like a superstitious peasant, disappointed because Holy Andraste hadn’t appeared in a halo of flame and led him to safety. ‘We are the Maker’s hands... His mercy in the world’ Mother Giselle was fond of saying. Marcus still stared at his own left hand, marked by an ancient evil to raise a false god into the heavens; the power it unleashed now wielded in the fight against that would-be deity. How could he see that and not believe?

“Maker... I never wanted this” he murmured “I only wanted the war to end... I just wanted...”

“Not many get what they want, or what they deserve...” 

He turned sharply at the unexpected voice, instinctively reaching for his blade.  Hawke leaned against the doorway, still visibly in pain.  Marcus showed no sign of relaxing his guard

“Should you be up already?”

“Probably not, but I heal better out of bed…” Hawke straightened himself up with a grimace and stepped into the room “May a wounded man have permission to sit in the Lord Inquisitor’s presence?”

Marcus pushed a chair toward Hawke with his foot, removing his hand from the hilt at his waist but still poised and watchful.

“Sit, and stop being an arsehole…”

“I can do one or the other, not both; you’ve probably noticed being an arsehole is all part of my charm…”  Hawke eased himself into the chair, grunting in discomfort at the pain needling through his stomach.  His injuries were mending fast, the Inquisition’s healers were some of the best, but the demon’s claws had cut deep and it would be some days before he was fully recovered “I wanted to say thank you, for getting me out of there.  It must have been tempting just to drop me and run…”

Marcus shrugged

“Don’t thank me too much, if I could’ve thought of a good enough story to tell Varric you’d be feeding a host of baby nightmares right now.”

Hawke laughed, scratching at his beard

“No, I wouldn’t; you’re too decent a man, or you’re trying very hard to make everyone think you are.” He paused and scrutinised Marcus carefully “You’ve got the Mages, what’s left of the Templars and now the Grey Wardens fighting under your banner.  You virtually rule the Eastern Dales, the Western Approach and half of Ferelden.  Half of Thedas thinks you’re some Holy Redeemer; what _are_ you going to do with all that power?”

“I’m no redeemer, just a man trying to fix a fucking mess…” Marcus threw his pen down angrily “and I don’t want power, I never have. All I want…”

_All I want is to be back in Ostwick; lying on the roof with Aidhan, teaching him the proper names for the constellations… for none of this ever to have happened…_

“So, you’d give it all up?” Hawke scoffed, unable to help himself “Find some little place in the country where you and your Templar can raise Mabari?”

“Why not? I like dogs…” Marcus snapped back; Hawke certainly had a fucked-up notion of how to say ‘thank-you’ “and he’s not a Templar anymore.”

“Cullen will always be a Templar and so will you, despite your magic; that’s why…” Hawke stopped, this wasn’t how he’d wanted the conversation to go.  This was why he should never go anywhere without Varric to tell him when to shut up “Look… Marcus; you saved my life and I owe you for that, I won’t forget it and… and I wish we could have got Alistair out as well…”

“At least we can agree on something…” Marcus was silent for a moment “Hawke…”

Hawke shook his head, raising his hand to stop Marcus from continuing

“Let’s… maybe just leave it at that, before we really do end up killing each other.  I’m leaving for Weisshaupt once my guts have healed up, the Wardens there will need someone who knows about Corypheus if he tries his games with them…”

“That’s probably a very good idea” Marcus acknowledged.  Hawke grunted in amusement as he pushed himself to his feet

“See! I do have them now and again…”

“Excuse me, Your Worship, Ser Hawke…” Knight-Captain Rylen was at the door, Varric beside him; both of them looking deeply troubled “An urgent report from Sister Nightingale, the apostate Anders has been spotted in Kirkwall…”

Hawke turned to Marcus, fury in his eyes

“You promised...!” he snarled. 

Varric stepped forward; ready to stop whatever Hawke was inclined to start, _again._ Behind him, Rylen’s hand was on the hilt of his sword; his face set in a silent warning that whatever Varric couldn’t stop, he would.

“Red kept his promise, Hawke…” he assured his friend “No-ones been hunting Anders, Nightingale’s agent was after someone else when she spotted him…”

“And you believe them?” Hawke growled, if he had his blades right now there would be blood on the floor

“Shut up and listen…” Varric snapped back, the Dwarf’s patience non-existent “or they’ll need to stitch you back up all over again.”

Rylen relaxed his grip and continued his report

“Prince Sebastian’s forces have occupied Kirkwall, along with troops from Ostwick, demanding that the apostate and his associates be handed over for judgement.  They hold most of the city except for the Gallows, the Viscount’s Keep and parts of Lowtown.  Both the Prince and Watch-Commander Aveline have sent messages asking for the Inquisition’s support and assistance.”

“That fucking pious bastard…” Hawke hissed between clenched teeth

Marcus let out a long breath, this was exactly the sort of distraction they didn’t need right now.  He couldn’t delegate this…

“Tell Commander Cullen I want to see him right now and send messages to Nightingale and Lady Josephine; I need every bit of information they have…” he paused, looking directly at Rylen, an unpleasant certainty twisting inside him “Who commands the men from Ostwick?”

“Lord Johan Trevelyan, your Worship” Rylen confirmed with a slight wince “Your brother urgently asks for your personal intervention; he’s concerned Prince Sebastian might resort to extreme measures unless the apostate is surrendered soon…”

“Well…” grunted Varric “Looks like we’re all in for a few re-unions. Shit…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. City of Chains: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoiler Alert***  
> This story is based on the War-Table operation ‘Annexing Kirkwall’ and so contains no major game spoilers. It is set after the events of Here Lies the Abyss and contains some references to events in that section.  
> Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, has invaded Kirkwall in revenge for Anders’s destruction of the Grand Chantry and the death of Grand Cleric Elthina; occupying most of Kirkwall City with the demand that Anders and his associates be handed over for justice. Marcus has been asked to intervene personally by his brother, the Champion of Ostwick, to stop the situation deteriorating further. Innocent lives are at risk, and the annexation of Kirkwall threatens the peace of all the Free Marches.  
> The return to Kirkwall brings back dark and painful memories for both Cullen and Hawke while Cullen fears that Marcus, as well as Anders, may be the target of Prince Sebastian’s fanaticism.  
> It quickly becomes obvious the Prince has no interest in negotiation so Marcus, accompanied by his brother and Cullen, heads to the besieged Viscount’s Keep in the attempt to find a solution to the crisis.  
> See end of chapter for more notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Note on Locations***  
> In the prologue, the Hawke family are described as taking ship from West Hill, on the Storm Coast of Ferelden, to escape the Fifth Blight; rather than from Gwaren on the far South-East coast. This is a bit of AU pedantry on my part. West Hill is just across the Waking Sea from Kirkwall City whereas a ship from Gwaren would be more likely to make landfall at Alamar or Estwatch Island, or one of the eastern Free Marcher states like Hercinia or Markham  
> ***Note on Thedan Fauna***  
> Tusket: A pig-like animal found largely in Ferelden and Orlais, characterised by their distinctive back-markings, rolls of fat and upturned snout. Distantly related to the common Nug but without the creepy little hand-feet or disconcerting squeaking.  
> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Strong language, strong sexual references, referenced character death, referenced/past violence, suicidal thoughts.  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:30 Dragon: Port of West Hill, Ferelden**

Rumours raged like wildfire through the refugees cramming into the harbour town.  One man claimed the Orlesian Wardens had crossed the border and were cutting huge swathes through the Darkspawn; another insisted that Halamshiral was in flames and the Wardens falling back to defend Val Royeaux as the Imperial Court fled to the Anderfels.  A grey-haired woman screeched defiantly that King Cailan still lived and mustered his forces at Redcliffe, while a man with a bloody face proclaimed that Andraste Herself had appeared above Denerim Cathedral; promising to defend the capital with fire and sword.

Only one thing mattered to most of the refugees; could they find a ship out of this nightmare and how much would it cost?  The Hawke family were among the luckier ones, they’d managed to make their way onto the docks; even found a relatively sheltered corner to camp in as they tried to get passage out.  That was what passed for good luck in Ferelden this year.

Aveline had spread her cloak out on the cobbles so Leandra and Bethany had something dry and almost clean to rest on.  Bethany lay curled up with her head pillowed on Aveline’s lap, finally asleep, worn out with grief and fear.  The red-haired warrior’s impassive face gave no hint of her own feelings as she stared out towards the horizon where they might find a temporary safety; if anywhere would be safe from the Blight.

Leandra Hawke looked up as Garrett, her surviving son, came back; carefully stepping over and around the refugees huddled everywhere at the waterfront. The stubble on his face was finally beginning to resemble a beard.

_He should keep it, it suits him…_

A normal thought, the type a mother should have; not the memory of Carver, still trying to breathe with his chest smashed to a bloody pulp by the Ogre’s war-hammer.  Garrett shouldn’t blame himself, she didn’t; he’d been protecting Bethany, he couldn’t be everywhere at once.  If it was anyone’s fault it was hers.  They should have left Lothering earlier, when Sister Leliana warned her, but she thought they would have time…

Hawke crouched down beside his mother

“I’ve found a ship, it’s leaving for Kirkwall in the hour; but… the captain wants more”

Leandra sighed and pulled open the purse hanging at her belt; charity was as scarce as luck right now.

“No Mother, no…” Hawke moaned as he saw what she placed in his hands; the looped chains of gold set with rubies and pearls in the shape of Crystal Grace blossoms. “Not your wedding necklace!  I… I can find something else.”

Leandra shook her head and closed his fingers round it.  Malcom had fastened it about her neck the day they married; an apostate mage and the daughter of a noble house, eloping to a faraway land to wed in secret.  It was like something from a romantic novel, and the love they shared made all the hardship worthwhile.  Why hang on to a thing, when it could save the lives of her children?  Gamlen would look after them anyway, it wasn’t like they would starve in Kirkwall.

“Take it, Garrett… all that matters is that we get away from here…” she raised his clenched hand to her lips and kissed it “All that matters is that you and Beth are safe…”

**9:41 Dragon, early in Frumentum (Harvestmere)**

Claws of anxiety tightened round Cullen’s stomach as Kirkwall came into view.  The Great Lighthouse was the first thing a sea-traveller saw, marking the only safely navigable route along this part of the Waking Sea.  As the ship drew closer he could begin to make out the Twins; the colossal statues watching over the harbour entrance, and the looming black Sea Wall that gave the city its name.  Reliefs of the Old Gods of Tevinter, now defaced and mutilated, remained as a visible reminder of the city’s long, cruel, history.  All the efforts of the Chantry had been unable to obliterate them completely and to the Commander it felt like their malign presence never left the place; nourishing the lunacy, corruption, and blood-magic that infested the alleys of Darktown and the grand mansions of the powerful.

 Corypheus, the Darkspawn Magister, had been imprisoned by the Grey Wardens in the Western Vimarks; had his influence always been working in the depths, twisting the minds and debauching the wills of the city’s inhabitants? Knight-Commander Meredith had called Kirkwall ‘The Forge of the Maker’; where the strong were purified and the weak brought low.  Perhaps she had been insane all along, and Kirkwall’s miasmic influence just made it worse.  As a child, Meredith Stannard had seen her entire family slaughtered by an abomination that had once been her sister; grief and anger turning into a violent, paranoid, suspicion of all Mages.  She’d been far down the path of madness long before coming into contact with Red Lyrium, and nearly taken him with her.  The young Cullen had eagerly listened to her denunciations, here was no tolerant weakling like Ser Gregoire; she was like him, had seen what Mages truly were behind their human masks, and he became her devoted acolyte.

For six years Meredith had been his commander, mentor and guide; despite the whispers and the gossip he’d never lain with her, such an idea was near-blasphemy.  He’d seen in her the living image of Andraste as Warrior, imagined himself as her Havard, her zealous Aegis; standing by her side in an Exalted March against the depravity of Kirkwall.  His sword had still been wet from the slaughter at the Gallows when she’d ordered him to turn it against the Champion; the betrayer who protected apostates and dared to raise arms against the Templars and their holy work.  He’d refused and didn’t know why, even now; perhaps his madness wasn’t as complete as hers, or the part of him that still remembered the wide-eyed boy, who wanted only to protect the innocent, could take no more massacre and said ‘Enough!’. 

Cullen’s hands gripped the rail so tight he could feel splinters of wood digging into the palms, eyes screwed shut as memories of the screams in the Apprentices’ dormitory invaded his ears, the floor slippery with blood and piss, the pleas for mercy as his blade fell again and again.  Why hadn’t that voice spoken sooner? How many innocents had he killed before finally waking up to what he had become; did he really deserve forgiveness… to be loved? Cullen opened his eyes and looked down at the greenish-black waters below...  How long would it take him to reach the bottom in full armour?

“Pilot Ahoy!”

The shout from the crow’s nest broke Cullen out of the downward spiral of his thoughts.  Shading his eyes and squinting he could make out the approaching ship, flying the banner of the Kirkwall Harbour-Master.  According to Ser Gareth, the Ostwicker knight who came aboard at Val Chevin, Kirkwall Harbour was one of the areas still in the hands of the Watch.  Cullen suspected the notoriously ruthless gangs who controlled the harbour areas had something to do with that.  If anything could make the Cutters, the Fancy-men, the Broken Teeth and the Carta find common cause with each other and the City Watch it would be Sebastian Vael.

He turned and made his way to the Great Cabin where Marcus was deep in discussion with Varric and Ser Gareth.   Marcus looked up as Cullen came in; the Mage was not a good sailor and had slept poorly throughout the voyage.  Strain and tiredness showed in his features although he attempted a cheerful smile at the sight of Cullen. All the men who’d been at Adamant were on edge; exhausted from battle and the journey, recovering from their injuries and grieving for Alistair.  None of them had the patience or the inclination for this but, if their mission failed to bring about a resolution, the whole of the Free Marches could be seriously destabilised with unpredictable results

If either Sebastian or Aveline were expecting a fully-armed Inquisition Armada they would be disappointed.  For once Cullen, Leliana and Josephine were in complete agreement; Inquisition military involvement in the Kirkwall situation was an unacceptable distraction, the Lord Inquisitor was here solely as a mediator and his role purely diplomatic. 

“The Pilot’s been sighted, apparently we should make harbour in a couple of hours if the wind stays fair”

Marcus let out a long sigh then turned to Varric and Ser Gareth

“Could you give us the room, please?  There are some things I need to discuss with the Commander.”

“Sure, I’ll go find whatever bilge Hawke is hiding in and let him know” Varric got to his feet, keeping a firm hold of the table.  Even though the ship’s motion was gentle in this light, autumn, wind he didn’t trust anything that floated. Hawke had made himself as scarce as possible, given ship-board conditions.  It was plain he didn’t entirely believe the Inquisition hadn’t sent spies after Anders, despite Varric’s assurances, and Kirkwall had plenty of bad memories for its former Champion.  The Dwarf could see Hawke, Marcus and Cullen were near to breaking point and he didn’t like the idea of either man snapping in such close proximity to the others; things were bad enough as it was…

Marcus took one look at Cullen’s haggard, pale, face and shook his head

“I shouldn’t have agreed to you coming along…” 

It seemed like a good idea at first; Cullen standing solidly alongside the Inquisitor as a reminder of the force that lay behind their words and a sign of Marcus’s confidence in his Commander but, as they got closer to Kirkwall, he could see how much the thought of returning was affecting his lover and the concerns of the man were fast outweighing the considerations of the leader.

“I will not let you sail into this nest of vipers without my sword and shield by your side.” Cullen walked over to the desk and bent down, kissing Marcus fondly on the lips. “I almost lost you at Adamant.  If anything were to happen to you here… it would kill me.”

“It’s you I’m worried about…” Marcus took Cullen’s hand, frowning slightly as he saw a couple of splinters deep in the flesh.  Without comment he pulled a pair of tweezers from his tunic pocket and began to work them loose “You have a lot of enemies in Kirkwall.”

“So do you...” Cullen reminded him, wincing as Marcus removed the largest of the splinters from the ball of his thumb “Sebastian is no friend to Mages, and many of the surviving rogue Templars now serve under his banner. They would happily see you dead, or worse...  I fear we may be heading into a trap.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time…” Marcus kissed the palm of Cullen’s hand “You don’t need to worry so much, my Lion.”

Cullen stroked Marcus’s cheek with his thumb

“Can’t the Lion worry for his Lord?  I know you can look after yourself, ably, but that will never stop me doing everything in my power to keep you safe…”

“I’m more afraid for you, I can see the ghosts crowding in your eyes the closer we get…” Marcus took Cullen’s face in his hands and drew him close for another kiss “You’re not that man any more, don’t let them drag you back down…”

Cullen laughed softly

“Now you sound like Cole…” he paused, brows creasing in thought “Has anyone seen him recently?”

Marcus shook his head, chuckling

“No, but I heard one of the sailors complaining his boots were up in the rigging so I’m sure he’s about somewhere…”

###

Hawke crouched in the underdeck by the forward rope-locker, a well-work deck of cards in his hands; the only thing he had left of Lothering.  It had been in the bottom of his pack the day they fled and remained with him ever since; the last fragment of the life he’d once had.  He shuffled the deck repeatedly, pulling out cards at random and staring at the back, trying to guess which one it was; the old game he’d played with Bethany. 

Coming back to Kirkwall like this, it reminded him too much of the first time.  If he closed his eyes he could remember the stink of hundreds of bodies crammed together; pissing, shitting and sweating in terror until the final relief of the words ‘Kirkwall ahoy!’ spread through the refugees.  That surge of hope, then the discovery that ‘Rich Uncle Gamlen’ was a washed up drunk who’d gambled the Amell estates away and now lodged on the upper floor of a rancid tavern on the fringes of Darktown. 

He’d told Varric about how he sold himself as an indentured servant, hauling sacks at the docks for ten hours a day, to try and pay the debts they’d incurred for the privilege of getting stuck in this shithole.  He never told Varric about the other way he sold himself; the time Gamlen, in that wet, insinuating, voice whispered of how Hawke could make some extra money for them both.  The old lush still had cronies up in Hightown who would happily pay to make a strapping young dockhand their plaything for an evening; some would even pay more if he didn’t bathe first, showing up grimy and stinking from the harbour.  It didn’t sound any worse than what he’d done for that Templar in Lothering, to keep Bethany’s secret safe…

_At least Ser Ruari had been good-looking, and didn’t deliberately make it hurt…_

Every shilling made a difference to Mother and Bethany; that’s what Hawke told himself each time he limped back down the hill, wincing at every step.  He was doing it for them, so they could have the life they deserved; so they would never have to experience what he went through every night. 

Strange, though, he might never have met Anders if some bastard’s ‘game’ hadn’t ripped him up so badly he couldn’t stop bleeding. 

Anders with his thin, handsome, intelligent face, dry wit and long, gentle skilful fingers; the thoughtful, compassionate, healer who’d mended his torn arse and refused to take a farthing in payment – even given him a purseful of silver so he could take a few nights off and heal properly. 

Hawke returned a week or so later with the intention of paying him back ‘in trade’, only to have Anders carefully refasten his breeches and kiss him on the cheek with a smiling shake of his head; ‘Come back when you _want_ to, not because you feel you _have_ to…’

He went back two nights later, and every spare moment he could manage.  He’d been fucked more times than he could count but Anders was the only man who made love to him. That soft caress and gentle voice; the tender way he eased himself inside without pain… as their bodies twined together it washed away the shame and degradation.  He felt purified, reborn… He would lie there afterwards, listening to Anders talk about justice, liberty, the right of every man and woman, Mage or not, to live life free and without fear – free from Lords, Clerics and Templars; free to be themselves.  It had all seemed so earnest and innocent, he never really noticed the bitterness and anger creeping in, until it was too late…

_If Anders had come with them to the Deep Roads – could he have saved Bethany?_

Hawke hadn’t wanted to take her, but she was afraid.  Meredith was clamping down on suspected Apostates among the refugees and it was getting harder to hide, to buy silence.  The Knight Commander had a new ally, a young Fereldan war-dog of a Templar who shared her hatred of Mages and could sniff out an Apostate at a hundred paces.  Hawke had caught a glimpse of him at Meredith’s side; one look at the man’s cold, tawny, eyes told him this wasn’t the type of Templar who could be bought off with a blow-job behind the Chantry after Evensong.  The tale was that captured Apostates were automatically made Tranquil, and _everyone_ knew what happened to the Tranquil at the Gallows.

So, she’d gone with them; caught the Blight and died.  Anders was a Grey Warden, knew the secret of the Joining, if he’d been there she could have been made a Warden and lived…

_…and Corypheus corrupted the Grey Warden Mages, turned them to Blood Magic and Abomination_

Bethany gone, then Mother; not even an honest death, but twisted into a monstrous parody of life by Quentin’s warped desire to resurrect his wife, because her face reminded the insane Blood-Mage of his lost love.  Anders held him in his arms all that night and the next day, not saying a word as Hawke howled his grief and anguish, the silent embrace a reminder he still had someone who loved him.

That was what they couldn’t see; Sebastian, Fenris, Isabella, even Varric… Anders sat there, back turned, on that wooden box while the rubble of the Grand Chantry crashed down on the city like a thousand trebuchets fired at once.  The knife was in his hand, he could have finished it; maybe even stopped the rebellion turning into war, saved hundreds or thousands of lives… and he couldn’t do it

Only Aveline came close to understanding. She was the only one who’d been with him since the beginning, since the terror of the flight from Ferelden; had a sense of what was taken from him.  If he lost Anders, all that was left was a worn-out deck of cards…

He turned over the card in his hands, the Princess of Drakes; Bethany’s card…

_“He knows what it means to love… he’ll understand…”_

Hawke’s head snapped up and he looked around sharply.  The voice of the thought hadn’t been his, that freakish spirit-boy the Inquisitor kept around must be lurking somewhere

“Get out of my mind” he hissed “I don’t need you…”

Cole pulled back into the shadows, alarmed and dismayed.  He couldn’t help if they didn’t want it, if all they wanted was to hurt…

“Talking to yourself, Hawke? That’s the first sign of madness.”

Hawke grinned ruefully as Varric approached

“I’m long past that stage, anyway I was talking to Marcus’s pet spirit.  I think he was trying to ‘help’”

“Cole’s an okay kid, he just takes a bit of getting used to” Varric grunted, shifting his feet and grabbing a beam as the ship rocked “The Kirkwall pilot’s coming on board, we’ll reach the harbour in about an hour.”

Hawke got to his feet, slipping the cards into his pack.

“Better make myself presentable then, wouldn’t want to disappoint Sebastian…”

Varric followed Hawke up to the main deck, shaking his head sadly.  Someone was going to get shot in the ass before the day was through; he just didn’t know who, yet…

###

Even before the Troubles, Kirkwall could never have been called beautiful.  It was said that each of the great cities of the Free Marches had their own, unique, charm and Kirkwall’s was the road to Ostwick.  The city’s natural, well defended, harbour and strategic position on the Waking Sea made it the great port centre of the Marches, another reason why Starkhaven’s occupation had the neighbouring states agitated, and Kirkwall’s glory lay in its great docks and harbours; not marble arcades and gilded fountains. 

To anyone who knew the place, the absence of the Grand Chantry was the most obvious reminder of the catastrophe that hit four years ago; even for a stranger like Marcus, the evidence of what happened was brutally obvious.  Rubble had been cleared but rebuilding had been slow and fitful.  The Viscount’s Keep showed evidence of hasty repairs but many of the public buildings around it stood shattered and empty, while great swathes of Lowtown had been levelled by the fires that raged in the wake of the explosion. 

Ironically, the only major building in the city to escape damage was the Gallows, crouched in the middle of the harbour.  Marcus shuddered at the sight of the heavy curtain walls and squat towers, everything about it evoked fear and misery.  Cullen stared at it as they passed, his face set and impassive, only the twitching muscles of his jaw giving some sign of what he must be feeling inside.  No-one had gone near it for months, according the Pilot, the place was infested with Red Lyrium. Kirkwall’s remaining Templars had marched off shortly after Cullen left; only a handful electing to stay behind and join the City Watch, suspicious of the new Knight-Captain sent to lead them away.  His eyes had a peculiar reddish tint and there was something wrong about his voice; like it was someone else speaking through his mouth.

Cullen’s expression didn’t change but his hand tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword. Varric opened his mouth to say something but caught the way Marcus shook his head slightly.  The Commander was best left alone right now….

“Magefire is the best thing for purging Red Lyrium” Marcus said to the Pilot, almost conversationally “Once this is settled, I can send a detachment of Battle-Mages to sterilise the place.”

“I’m sure Commander Aveline will be very grateful” the Pilot replied with a faint smile “Got anything that’ll rip it down and dump it in the deepest ocean…?”

###

“So, you’re the Mage-Inquisitor? You’re not what I expected…” 

Leliana’s reports described Sebastian Vael, Hereditary Prince of Starkhaven, as ‘the worst sort of reformed libertine’; humourless, puritanical and convinced of his own righteousness.  Marcus struggled not to smile at the pure white armour; if the man was trying to make a statement it would be easier to have ‘I’m A Colossal Prick’ embroidered on his banner.  But, despite his pretensions and overcooked piety, there was nothing funny about Prince Sebastian.  Thwarted in his attempts to get Divine Justinia to proclaim an Exalted March against the Mage Rebellion, Sebastian had retaken the throne of Starkhaven from his usurping cousin with the sole intent of leading his own campaign to avenge the death of Grand Cleric Elthina. 

A man that monomaniacal was dangerous. After deposing Goran and claiming the title, he’d purged the Principality of its remaining mages; making it a stronghold for those rogue Templars who refused the Lord Seeker’s orders and continued their ‘righteous battle’ against the Mage Rebellion.  Six of them stood with the Prince as his honour guard, their eyes glaring coldly at Marcus through the slits of their helmets.  He could sense their thoughts without needing Cole’s abilities; they would like nothing better than to skin him alive and throw him to the dogs.

Lord Johan Trevelyan stood to one side with a group of the Ostwicker knights; his stance making it plain that anyone who raised a hand against his brother would lose it in that moment.  Ostwick’s alliance with the Prince was fragile, a political ploy by Teryn Fernand to exercise a restraining influence on the young fanatic, and wasn’t something Sebastian would be able to rely on if the wily old monarch deemed his actions ‘unacceptable’.

“I try to surprise people whenever possible, Prince Sebastian” Marcus replied amiably, he wasn’t going to let this man raise his hackles “It gives a certain advantage…”

He would have preferred to have gone straight to the Keep with Varric and Hawke, following the winding back ways and hidden passages that allowed Aveline’s watchmen to come and go despite the occupying troops, but he was here at his brother’s invitation and Johan was with Sebastian at the Prince’s camp; ostentatiously placed right by the site of the ruined Grand Chantry. Protocol, as well as practicality, demanded he be seen to meet with Sebastian first and endure his snide resentment.

“I am surprised you’re here at all, _my Lord_.  I asked for troops, not this token delegation…”

‘If you’re not for him, you’re against him’ that was the warning Hawke gave, and it was clear the Prince of Starkhaven placed Marcus firmly in the category of an obstacle.  There would be no way to negotiate with Sebastian Vael, he would need to outmanoeuvre him if more blood wasn’t to be shed on Kirkwall’s streets.

“I’m here at the personal request of the Champion of Ostwick, to attempt a mediation and save lives on both sides; a worthy goal, I’m sure you’ll agree.  If your Highness would grant safe passage to the Keep…?”

“If you want to save lives, tell them to hand over the Apostate and his associates!” Sebastian snapped back “But you shall have your safe passage and, as the Lord Johan is so eager to mediate, he can accompany you as my spokesman…”

“Your Highness is most gracious” Marcus gave a polite bow of the head “We’ll keep you informed…”

“I shall expect news tomorrow morning.” The Prince responded, “Be warned, my patience is almost at an end…”

With no further words, he turned on his heel and left, followed by his Templars.

_Probably off to scourge himself for the sin of talking to a Mage._

Lord Johan Trevelyan heaved a sigh of relief and pulled his younger brother into a ferocious bearhug

“Aaargh! Jo! Not too tight! Broken ribs; remember?”

“Shit! Sorry… Sorry…” Johan released his grasp.  The Champion of Ostwick was a few years older than Marcus, bearded, a little taller and just as powerfully built, with the same red hair and bright blue eyes that were a Trevelyan trait.  The resemblance between the two men was striking; if it wasn’t for the age difference they could have been twins.  Johan shook his head with a slight smile “Sorry for dragging you into this, Tusket, but this is turning into one hell of a mess and people seem to listen to the Inquisition.”

“Clearly not all of them…” Marcus glanced in the direction of the departing Prince and his entourage and, yes, all his officers _HAD_ heard his childhood nickname; he could hear Knight-Captain Rylen’s coughing as he tried not to laugh. He swatted Johan on the arm with the back of his hand “C’mon, _Snuffles!_ Let’s see if we can fix this before it gets any nastier…”

“Tusket?” Cullen whispered with a raised eyebrow as they rode towards the barricade at the entry to the Viscount’s Keep.

“I was a chubby child” Marcus whispered in reply “Let’s just leave it at that.”

Cullen gave Marcus a sidelong glance, smiling for the first time since they landed

“That’s certainly not true anymore…”

Marcus winked back at him, glad of the momentary relief

“Still nice and fat where it counts, though…”

**In City of Chains Part 2**

**Cullen has a brief reunion with a former comrade and Red Jenny has a surprise for the Inquisitor**

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. City of Chains Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Major Trigger Alert***  
> This chapter includes multiple references to past rape, past sexual assault and the aftermath thereof, including reference to the implied sexual assault of minors. These are placed firmly in the setting of the canonical events leading to the destruction of Kirkwall’s Grand Chantry and the Mage Rebellion and are not intended to be gratuitous.  
> This chapter also includes Anders’ attempt to justify/explain his actions within this context. I have tried to explore what might motivate an otherwise engaging and sympathetic man to carry out an atrocity on that scale, without attempting to condone or excuse his actions in any way.  
> Part 2 of this three-part chapter is based on the War-Table operation ‘Annexing Kirkwall’ and contains no game spoilers.  
> Marcus learns that Sebastian Vael’s position may not be as strong as it appears but this does little to solve the immediate problem. Cole attempts to help the young Inquisitor with his abiding grief and a message arrives from Red Jenny  
> Cullen’s moment of much-needed solitude is interrupted by the intrusion of a former comrade and Marcus finally confronts the man responsible for his sister’s death…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:36 Dragon: Willowberg Keep, Terynir of Ostwick; ancestral seat of House Trevelyan**

“Isn’t it just _perfect_?”

The wide, flounced, skirts of the dress flared out as Alysanne Trevelyan spun around; sparkles of light flashing from the tiny Brilliants woven through the fabric.  Marcus lolled on the couch, grinning as he bit into a peach.  The wedding gown was spectacular, Papa had imported one of Val Royeaux’s finest dressmakers to work on it and his sister would look as magnificent as a Grand Duchess…

“It’s splendid, Sunny!  But isn’t it a bit much for berry-picking?”

“Beast!” his sister laughed, hurling a cushion at him “Isn’t he an _utter_ beast, Ser Aidhan?”

“Oh, a total monster Milady!” The young Templar smiled in agreement “I’ll see that he’s properly punished for it.”

Marcus winked at him

“I’m looking forward to _that_!”

Alysanne threw herself down on the couch beside Marcus, pouting in annoyance

“It’s _so_ unfair you can’t come to the wedding.  You passed your Harrowing and Ser Durward gave permission.  All because of that _horrible_ woman…”

Knight-Commander Meredith had denied permission for _Junior Enchanter_ Trevelyan to enter the jurisdiction of the Kirkwall Commandery and attend the wedding of the Lady Alysanne to the Lord Philip Redbank.  It was pure sour grapes; the Redbank family’s alliance with the Trevelyans took Baron Julius several steps closer to his goal of securing Kirkwall’s vacant throne and Meredith knew it.  She couldn’t stop the marriage, but she could prohibit the bride’s Mage brother from attending. A petty, small minded, move hiding behind public policy…

_…At a time when the Mage problem is at its height, it would be inappropriate and dangerous for a Mage, sporting the trappings of nobility, to be seen attending such a significant event._

“… _such_ an insult! When Baron Julius becomes Viscount, I’ll make sure he has her replaced; then you can come and stay with us at the Keep whenever you want…”

She patted her younger brother’s hand and he laughed fondly.  It was always so simple and straightforward for Sunny; even as a child she had a solution for everything, no matter how impractical that solution might be. 

“He’s not Viscount yet and, anyway, it’s the Grand Cleric who appoints or dismisses the Knight-Commander…”

“He will be as soon as the Synod meets, and then he can tell the Grand Cleric to replace her.  You _do_ like to overcomplicate things, Tusket!” She stood up and smoothed down her skirts “At least you’ve seen me in my wedding dress… I ought to go and take it off before it gets creased…”

“And you do look beautiful” Marcus stood and kissed her on both cheeks “Everyone in Kirkwall will be seething with jealousy, even that old trout of a Knight-Commander”

Blowing a kiss to Ser Aidhan, who deftly caught it in his fist, Alysanne danced from the room followed by her maids.  Marcus collapsed back on the couch with a sigh…

He should be happy for her marriage; Philip Redbank was an agreeable enough chap and it was an astute political move.  Even Knight-Commander Meredith couldn’t stop the Synod of Nobles from assembling indefinitely and, when they did, the election of Julius Redbank was little more than a matter of form.  But Kirkwall was still recovering from the Qunari assault a couple of years ago and had seen two ruling families fall in the past twenty years.  The city had a grim reputation, and even Sunny’s bright demeanour might be dimmed by it…

“She’ll be fine” Aidhan assured Marcus, slipping an arm round his shoulder and kissing him “Under all the frills and glitter she’s tough, like all you Trevelyans…”

“You should know, I’m still aching from that last sparring session” Marcus grinned “Anyway, how _are_ you going to punish me for being a beast to my big sister?”

Aidhan chuckled lewdly and pulled a slim book, bound in beige leather, out from under the cushions.  Marcus took it and laughed out loud as he read the title page

“ _Bound for Love; Restrained Tales for the Liberated of Spirit_ …? Where did you…?”

Aidhan nuzzled Marcus’s neck with his lips

“Look at the illustration on page 26…”

Marcus turned to the page in question

“Makers Breath! How flexible do you think I am?”

**9:41 Dragon, early in Frumentum (Harvestmere) City of Kirkwall**

Prince Sebastian was bluffing; that was clear from the reports of Leliana’s agents.  He lacked the men and resources to mount a sustained occupation of Kirkwall City, let alone a complete annexation of the Viscounty.  Over half of his army consisted of mercenary companies he couldn’t afford to pay much longer, Starkhaven’s treasury was depleted after years of misrule, and his supply lines ran through miles of hostile territory.  Thanks to the assistance of certain specialist agents, those supply lines would be experiencing extra difficulties.  If he didn’t withdraw soon, the new Prince of Starkhaven would find himself stuck without adequate supplies or the troops to fight his way out. 

Commander Aveline was appreciative.  With the Provisional Viscount a mere placeholder, she was the real authority in Kirkwall and, unlike Sebastian, quick to realise that Inquisition intelligence was of greater value than Inquisition swords.  It was encouraging, but the Prince could still do a lot of damage with the forces at his disposal if he wasn’t dealt with. 

Even if they knew where Anders was, handing him over wasn’t an option; Hawke was likely to disembowel the first person to suggest that anyway.  Any judgement of the apostate was a matter for Kirkwall to deal with and not to be surrendered to another state over a matter of personal vengeance.  Had Sebastian paid the Crows a wagon-load of gold to kill Anders, or kidnap him and take him to Starkhaven, that would be different; if he couldn’t afford the price, given the perilous state of his privy purse, the Trevelyans would happily have called in a few favours with their Antivan cousins to come to an ‘arrangement’.   The Prince was too honourable and pious for such an underhanded course of action though; he would rather threaten an already stricken city with massacre.

Johan and Marcus had privately, and reluctantly, agreed that preventing further bloodshed took precedence over avenging their sister.  Papa wouldn’t be happy but he would understand; Sunny would never have wanted this...

Hawke and Varric disappeared into Lowtown just after sunset.  There was no doubt who Hawke was looking for, but Varric was following up on a hunch of Cullen’s.  The Commander was suspicious of the Templars with Sebastian, chaos in the Free Marches suited Corypheus’s goals as much as chaos in Orlais, and the Dwarf was tracking down some of his ‘business’ contacts to see if there had been any shipments of Red Lyrium to, or in, Starkhaven during the past months.

Marcus had retreated to the chambers assigned to him to clear his head and review the most recent reports, looking for anything that would give them an added edge, but the words jumbled into meaningless blurs.  He wanted to go and find Cullen, but the Commander was ‘reviewing the Keep’s defences.’ That meant he would be pacing the battlements in solitude, fighting the storm in his head, and wouldn’t welcome company until he felt ready. 

“How do they get the flowers into the glass?”

Cole sat on the edge of the desk with a paperweight in his hands, turning it in the candlelight.  A posy of summer daisies embedded in a crystal globe. The guest apartments at the Keep were full of such chintzy bric-a-brac, presumably the legacy of some previous Viscount’s Consort. Marcus had been aware of the boy’s presence for some time, Cole was getting better at not startling people...

“I really don’t know...” Marcus sat back, glad of the distraction “Some special method I suppose...”

“It shines...” Cole giggled, as the striations in the glass refracted the light “Like the crystals on her dress as she danced around the drawing room...”

“Cole...” Marcus spoke softly but emphatically “Please stay out of my head just now.”

“I’m sorry...” Cole put the paperweight back on the desk, eyes apologetically downcast “But sometimes thoughts are so loud they come out of your head and stand beside you...”

Coles expression brightened, as it always did when he saw a way to help

“Like she is right now.  Sunny wants you to be happy when you remember her.  It makes her sad when you cry...”

“Cole, are you...” Marcus hesitated, the boy and his abilities were a mystery even to Solas; none of them were entirely sure what he could or couldn’t do “Are you able to speak to Sunn... To Alysanne?”

Cole shook his head, it was difficult to make people understand, they thought spirits were like things; single, solid, stable and that people were the same; one thing in one place and nowhere else.  Marcus was different, he knew that one thing could also be many things in different places; he wasn’t afraid of spirits the way a lot of Circle Mages were.  That’s why he let Cole stay, he was curious; like Solas…  But when the hurt became too much he would forget, and he was hurting a lot here, in this city built of tears; they all were…

“Only to the part of her that’s in your head, she’s always there; like the man with the dark green eyes” Cole tilted his head with a shy smile “He’s happy that you’re not alone anymore… but he wishes he could have stopped them hurting you like that…”

“Those… those are just memories, Cole…” Marcus swallowed, feeling the hot sting in his eyes “They’re not…”

“They _are_ real!” Cole insisted “They’re the part of them that’s always alive as long as you remember… and they never stop loving you… Does… that… help?”

Cole’s smile became a little anxious, it was always difficult when the hurt and love and hate were so tied together, it wasn’t good to pull too hard.  Marcus wiped his eyes with the palm of his hand

“Actually, Cole; it does.  It helps a lot…”

“I’m glad, I like to help you… you try to help everyone, but no-one ever does anything for you” Cole paused, that wasn’t completely true “Except for Cullen… he wishes he could give you more. He doesn’t think he can ever be good enough for you…”

“That’s not true; he’s…” Marcus shook his head and smiled, sometimes it was easy to forget that Cole’s words weren’t his own thoughts “Cullen is very special to me, Cole, and I want you to keep watch over him while we’re here.  This isn’t a healthy place for him…”

“Cullen doesn’t like me very much… when he sees me he thinks about the demons that hurt him” Cole said with an unhappy frown, then smiled again as he hopped off the desk “But he’ll kill me if I ever hurt someone and that’s _good_.  I don’t want to hurt people…” 

It was a few minutes before Marcus realised Cole had gone and the voices in his head were his own again.  What he’d said had helped; in that strange, roundabout, way the spirit’s ‘help’ often did.  The idea that the people he’d lost were still there in some way, surviving through his memory, not just Sunny and Aidh, but Lydia, Durward and Alistair as well; it couldn’t take away the pain of absence, but it became more bearable

_Maker! How did my life become like this?_

A maid knocked softly at the door as she pushed it open, moving quickly over to the desk in that strange little half-run that was the hallmark of the servant class here; in Ostwick they called it the ‘Kirkwall Trot’.  She placed a tray with a bottle and glass down beside him and Marcus was about to thank her when he remembered he hadn’t asked for wine.  His eye was caught by something on the tray; instead of the usual crisp, white, napkin, the glass rested on a scrap of torn cloth… red cloth. 

He looked up with a questioning expression and the maid, a pretty girl with dark Rivaini features, smiled back at him.

“The Friends have a message for you, milord, but not here…”

###

Cullen found the solitude he was looking for on the South Tower of the Keep.  As some point in the past a roof-garden had been laid out there, a place for the ruling family to relax far above the noise and stench of the city.  It hadn’t been tended to for some time, probably not since the Arishok dragged Viscount Dumar from his throne and beheaded him in front of his terrified courtiers; weeds sprouted through the gravel and the ornamental lemon-trees in their urns were ragged and drooping.  It was a clear night, neither moon had risen and the sky was full of stars, only a few lights glimmered in the city below.  In the darkness, when you couldn’t see the damage, it was an almost pleasant view.  The Gallows could just be made out as a darker shadow in the harbour; it might have been his imagination, but if you looked closely enough there seemed to be a reddish aura hanging over it.  Aveline had happily accepted Marcus’s offer of Inquisition battle-mages to scour the place clean with magefire.

He leaned on the battlements and sighed.  Cullen had never considered himself a sociable man; even as a novice he’d been shy and withdrawn around the others.  Only Alistair, the perpetual joker, could pull him out of his shell and encourage a bit of mischief.

_Andraste, carry him to the Maker’s side…  bring him the peace he could never find in life_

After Ferelden, he’d withdrawn even more; surrounding himself with a cold, hard, shell that kept everyone at a distance.  Cassandra had cracked it a little, as she helped him with the first agonising stages of Lyrium withdrawal, then Marcus had worked his way through and given him a reason to keep fighting.  Being with the Inquisition was totally different to anything he had experienced with the Templars. It felt strange, even a bit unnatural the way people in Skyhold were determined to _like_ him; Blackwall and Bull nagging him into sharing a beer at the Herald, even Josephine’s invitations to those damnable tea-parties she kept throwing. 

It was kind but he was happiest when it was just him, Marcus and a couple of bottles of wine.  Sometimes Cassandra would join them for the first glass or two, Marcus teasing her about whatever trashy romance she was currently engrossed in, always withdrawing with a discrete excuse when the second bottle was uncorked.  He liked Marcus’s easy sociability even though it he could never share it, but until they came back here he hadn’t realised how much he’d grown used to people actually _smiling_ when they saw him.

Kirkwall greeted the former Knight-Captain with cold, suspicious, stares.  Watch-Commander Aveline had been quite proper and professional in her manner but he’d seen the look in her eyes.  Cullen Rutherford was a walking reminder of what had led to the ruin and disorder the city now struggled to cope with; only Sebastian Vael was a less popular visitor, and not by a great margin.  Memories of Meredith’s rule over the City were still fresh and raw, and Cullen had been the embodiment of the Knight-Commander’s will…

He turned, tensing at the sound of footsteps on the gravel; then relaxed when he saw it was Ser Noah.  The man had been one of his immediate juniors in the Commandery; Cullen was glad he’d joined the Watch, not gone off with the others, Noah was a good, competent officer.

“Ser Noah, I…”

The ferocity of the punch took Cullen by surprise.  He dropped to his knees; winded and struggling for breath.

“That’s for leaving us behind, _Knight-Captain_ , for the ones that went to the Red.” Ser Noah stared down at him with contempt “Here’s a little something in case you feel the need. Don’t outstay your welcome…”

He was gone by the time Cullen got to his feet, the only evidence of his presence a vial of Lyrium on the battlements.

###

“Straight up the stairs, milord, the door at the top.  I’ll be waiting for you in the tavern when you leave.”

They were near the docks, Marcus could smell the tar and rotting rope, in a festering slum that only a Friend of Red Jenny could have safely guided him through.  The stairs were narrow, uneven, and slick with damp; while those inhabitants of the tenement that poked their heads out eyed him with suspicion.  Even in this dun-coloured cloak, and the leather tunic and breeches of a workman, he stank of wealth.  It was madness to have come down here alone, without alerting anyone, but the Jennys had proven reliable, if eccentric, allies so far.  He’d given orders that he was resting, and not to be disturbed, so that should buy him a couple of hours.  Maker help him if Cullen found out about this!

He knocked softly on the door at the top of the stairs; three, then two, then three

“Please, come in” A man’s voice, quiet, dry and hoarse.

The room was right under the eaves, low and cramped, furnished only with a bed, table and stool. A lean, haggard man sat at the table with a book in front of him; thinning blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Thank you for coming, Lord Trevelyan.  I wanted….”

“You!” Marcus breath quickened, eyes flaring with rage; no doubt in his mind about the identity of this man “You _fucking_ …”

He leapt forward, flames curling around his fingers.  Anders raised his hand and Marcus felt himself slowing, like he was wading through syrup; life ebbing out of him, darkness sweeping up from his feet as the last thing he saw was the apostate’s eyes glowing pure white…

###

“You...  You should have killed me while you had the chance” Marcus croaked.  The ropes around his wrist were tight enough to restrain, without cutting off circulation; the other Mage had judged it well, it would be hours before he regained sufficient mana to conjure more than a few sparks “Or did you have something else in mind? Will Hawke be showing up to give his blades some exercise?”

Ander moved his stool closer to the bed and hauled Marcus into a sitting position.  It was foolish to think Trevelyan wouldn’t have guessed who he was the moment he came in, but there had been little time to prepare for this meeting.  A Life Drain was risky but he had enough practise by now, and it would prevent this headstrong young Lord from doing anything foolish before he had the chance to explain.

“I don’t think it will take Hawke long to find me, I left him enough clues...” He settled down on the stool and poured a cup of wine “But I don’t want to kill you or hurt you, Trevelyan.  I just wanted to talk...”

“You murdered my sister, _vahshlitt!_ ” Marcus hissed, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining has he struggled with his bonds, only Tevene had words strong enough to convey his contempt “There’s nothing I want to say to you…”

“Your sister?” Anders frowned, looking confused, thinking aloud “Oh… yes… Redbank’s son married a girl from Ostwick…”

“She wasn’t a ‘Girl from Ostwick’” Marcus yelled, red with rage; then his voice cracked and he appeared to collapse in on himself “She… she was… she was Sunny…”

Sunny? Anders almost laughed out loud despite the young man’s furious anguish.  These nobles, and the childish nicknames they clung on to through the years! Living a perpetual adolescence of parties and hunts broken only by the occasional game of politics or war, shaking their heads at the excesses of their watchdogs but doing nothing to rein them in.

“She was innocent… she…”

“Kirkwall is built with the blood of the innocent” Anders couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice “Innocent lives were taken before I destroyed the Grand Chantry and innocent lives were taken after.  One or a thousand, it’s still a crime; but sad amber eyes appear to be all it takes to buy the Lord Trevelyan’s forgiveness…”

“Don’t you dare…” Marcus barked, “Don’t you _fucking_ dare…”

“We’re all hypocrites, Trevelyan, I’m not judging you…” Anders shook his head with a faint smile “Sometimes I think blowing up the Chantry was the only honest thing I’ve ever done…”

“Honest…?” Marcus stared at him with loathing “How can you even…?”

“I asked myself why so many times; to end the chance of compromise, to force the Mages into action, to show the world what the Templars and the Chantry truly were… In the end, though, I just wanted to make them pay…”

“Your insane… you’re _fucking_ insane!” Marcus snarled, “Pay for what…?”

“For doing nothing…!” Anders snapped back.  The Gallows sat in the middle of the harbour on its great black rock, visible from every part of the city; every day anyone who bothered to notice it would shake their head, mutter about what a terrible place it was, and go about their business… everyone knew what happened there, what was done there, and they did nothing… it was only Mages after all…  How could he make this man even begin to understand…?

“Do you sometimes have difficulty with bowel movements?” He asked suddenly “Blood… pain… that sort of thing?”

Marcus looked at him in astonishment; the man was a lunatic, ranting about the Gallows one minute and then shifting to a question about his bowels; like he was a patient…

“What… why would you even?”

“When I was checking I hadn’t excessively drained your life-energy, I detected scar tissue in your anal canal…” Anders slipped effortlessly into his ‘clinic voice’; calm, measured and gentle “Bleeding and discomfort aren’t uncommon in these cases….”

“That’s…” Marcus cleared his throat, steadying his voice “That’s none of your business…”

“I’ll take that as a yes…” Anders stood, with a dry smile and walked over to the table where he scribbled something on a piece of paper.

“Any good apothecary will be able to make this up, rinse yourself out with it, using tepid water, every morning before your bath…” he came back over and tucked the folded paper into Marcus’s tunic “That will ease it a bit.  There’s bound to be a few spirit healers among the Mages with the Inquisition; after a month of this, one of them should be able to do something about the worst of the scarring.  It’ll never go away completely I’m afraid; if it had been treated at the time...”

He sat back down, regarding the young Mage with a curiously sympathetic expression.

“Why are you doing this…?” Bewilderment at this sudden change in Anders had briefly overtaken Marcus’s anger and hatred.  The older man shrugged

“I’m still a healer.  I’ve treated a lot of injuries like that and I know what causes them” He paused, looking down at the floor “Did it happen after the Circle fell?”

_No need to rush, lads, you’ll all get a go…_

_…always wanted to shove it up this posh wanker…_

_What’s the matter, Trevelyan? Thought you liked a bit of Templar cock?_

Marcus nodded silently, shaking at the memory.  Anders placed a hand on his shoulder

“It’s a terrible, humiliating, violation.  I assume you were too ashamed to tell your parents, which is why it didn’t get treated?”

Marcus nodded again, fear and anxiety twisting around the shame and anger; this insane abomination was getting inside his head, touching at his worst memories – things he’d barely been able to tell Cullen.  Was this what had happened to Cullen at Kinloch Hold? Was Anders going to submit him to the same ordeal and would he be able to survive it?

“I’m sorry you had to endure that, I truly am…” Anders sighed, a look of deep sadness and pain in his eyes “But think what it would be like to live in fear of that every day…”

…Never knowing when some bored Templar was going to grab you by the arm and drag you into a quiet corner, threatening with accusations of blood magic or demon-summoning if you didn’t do what he wanted.  On a lucky day, he might just be after a quick blow-job; if he was in a bad mood you’d be limping for days afterwards…  Going to bed at night, hoping none of them would decide to drop by for a ‘visit’.  Mages from families with money or influence were safe; even if you only had a family who cared enough to keep contact with you, or were friends with the right people in the Circle you didn’t have to worry. For the poor, shunned, friendless ones, it happened everywhere…

“No!” Marcus shook his head, emphatically “Not everywhere, not…”

“Everywhere” Anders repeated “In the better-run Circles they were just more cautious, made sure it never got to the ears of the Knight Commander or the Revered Mother; stuck with the ones they could scare into silence… or the Tranquil.  The Tranquil might not feel desire or emotion, but they still feel pain…”

Anders paused and looked the younger man in the eyes

“The men who raped you, it wouldn’t have been the first time they did something like that…  and sometimes the nicest ones turn out to be the worst.  My first night in a Circle, a Templar came into my room; smiling and being friendly.  He was still smiling and being friendly later when I was crying in the corner and he was wiping my blood off his prick…”

…In the Gallows, they didn’t have to be cautious; once they even paraded some of their Tranquil ‘pets’ in front of the other Mages to intimidate them into submission.  The bad ones took full advantage to indulge themselves; the good ones, those that were left, kept an ashamed silence for fear of ending up like Ralegh Sampson.  The worst ones?  They knew what was happening and ignored it; called it lies – the Mages were just trying to win a bit of sympathy, to discredit Knight Commander Meredith’s ‘righteous regime’

“…and _everyone_ knew; why do you think the lords and ladies of Hightown sent their Mage children to Ostwick or Markham?  They knew and they didn’t care enough to do anything!” Anders fought to keep his voice from rising “Bethany Hawke begged Garrett to take her to the Deep Roads with him. She was so afraid of going to the Gallows she would rather face the risk of Darkspawn….  I wanted… I…”

“And that’s why you killed hundreds, plunged us into a war we didn’t want?” Marcus had found his voice again, and his anger “You wanted to punish….?”

“I wanted it to stop!” Anders yelled “Eight hundred years of imprisonment, humiliation and rape; men women and… and _children_ degraded and abused because of the way they were born.  What _fucking_ chance did compromise have in the face of the Lamberts and the Merediths?  I wanted the whole _rotten_ thing torn down so we could at least have a chance of building something new…”

Anders paused for breath, tears streaming down his face

“I’m _sorry_ about your sister… I’m sorry about _every_ sister and brother and son and daughter; but I can’t be sorry for doing it, not after everything we’ve suffered.  And I’m sorry I brought more misery by coming back…  I just wanted them to stop”

The man was mad; whether from the struggle with the spirit possessing him or the years of suffering he’d seen and endured.  What frightened Marcus, sickened him, was the way his insanity made sense.  If even part of what he said was true… then…  then a whole swathe of his beliefs was founded on a…  He couldn’t even begin to think it.

“I… I was meant to be a Templar…” he stammered, trying to find some defence of an institution he still wanted to believe in, to respect “I would never…”

“No, you would never… You would have been one of the Best, I’m sure” Anders smiled, wavering between sincerity and sarcasm “Good looking, honourable, the cachet of a grand noble name; you would have been Knight-Commander by the time you were thirty, the Glory of the Order, and the bad ones would have to be _very_ careful to hide their trespasses from Lord Knight-Commander Trevelyan’s eagle eye.  Everyone would have pointed at you and said ‘Look, the system works after all…’”

Anders stopped; he’d already turned this boy’s world inside out and upside down, dragged him into the mess of Kirkwall, tricked him into meeting the man responsible for the death of his sister and infant nephew… that hadn’t been his plan.  He couldn’t think clearly any more, couldn’t tell what was him and what was Justice or Vengeance.  He had to focus before it became any louder…

“I’m sorry, Trevelyan, you _are_ a good man and you bear too heavy a burden for someone so young.  All I wanted to do was to come to Kirkwall one last time and say goodbye…”

“Why?” Something about the way Anders said it sparked Marcus’s curiosity; even a faint thread of sympathy for the things that had made this man believe he had to commit a monstrous act…

“That’s… why I wanted to talk to you” Anders leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees “If I could claim a little more of your time…”

**In Part 3**

**What is important enough for Anders to risk returning to Kirkwall?**

**Hawke’s sudden arrival puts Marcus’s life in danger and painful choices must be made**

 


	15. City of Chains Pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the final instalment of this three-part chapter based on the War Table operation ‘Annexing Kirkwall’  
> Hawke assumes the worst when he finds Marcus with Anders and the Apostate Mage is forced to placate his angry lover before he can explain the reason for his return to Kirkwall.  
> Anders shares two secrets, one of which can never be told, and Hawke is confronted with a painful choice; meanwhile Cullen discovers that his own sense of need had led him to overlook the pressure Marcus has been under.  
> Sebastian Vael’s attempted purging of Kirkwall is thwarted but no-one is in a mood to celebrate.  
> Marcus and Hawke have what may be their final conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Character Death, Extreme Angst, Some strong language, Mild Homo-eroticism  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:35 Dragon: Ostwick Circle Tower: Terynir of Ostwick**

“Was this…” Aidhan sat up and hugged his knees to his chest “Was this your first time?”

Marcus folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the sunlight dappling the leaves overhead as they shifted in the faint breeze.  It had been… unexpected.  Their sparring match had turned into a play-fight; laughing as they grappled and rolled on the cool grass in this quiet corner of the grounds.  It ended with Aidhan on his back, pinned down by Marcus, and the two young men staring at each other in sudden silence; sea-green eyes meeting bright azure-blue.  Maker alone knew why, but in that moment Marcus dipped his head and brushed his lips against Aidhan’s, a feather light touch, and pulled back to look at him again; seeing only a slight surprise, and no obvious objection, he’d leaned in for a second kiss and then a third, until the two of them were locked in each other’s arms

“With another man? Yes...  What about you?”

Maker! He made it sound so casual; like he was one of those lotharios who loitered around the cafés of the Grand Concourse, tipping their plumed hats at every lovely maid who passed and recounting their conquests over hot Cacao and Rivaini brandy…  Still Jacinta seemed to have plenty of experience; and on his last visit to Willowberg had been more than eager to share it with the, now fully grown, young Lord

“You’ve been with women? Is that…” Aidhan hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it “Is that how you learned to do that thing you did with your mouth… down there?”

“It’s called _Baisez Antivaigne_ , an Antivan Kiss…” Marcus laughed, moving to sit cross-legged beside Aidhan “Seriously, Aidh, was this your first time… _ever_?”

Aidhan nodded, blushing, and Marcus found himself feeling suddenly anxious.

“I just…” Aidhan shrugged “I just never wanted to do it with anyone before…”

“But…” Marcus swallowed, feeling a tightness in his throat “But you wanted to do it with me…?”

“I did… but I didn’t know how to let you know” Aidhan picked nervously at the grass between his feet “I mean… you’re a Lord and I’m just…”

He was just a blacksmith’s boy who’d been given to the Templars because there were too many mouths to feed in a lean year.  It had been more than enough that the handsome young Lord had wanted to be friends with him, friendships between Mages and Templars weren’t exactly encouraged although they inevitably happened, but he’d never dared imagine than someone as amazing as Marc might be _interested_.  He’d been too scared to respond to that first kiss; afraid it was just a joke, the kind of thing two young men did when they were clowning around, but he’d done it again and by the third time Aidhan couldn’t hold himself back any longer…

“And I’m a Mage and you’re a Templar” Marcus rubbed the back of Aidhan’s neck “But we’re friends, and I really like you, so that’s all that matters; right? You and me against the world?”

“I think we’re a bit more than friends now…” Aidhan grinned; realising that wonderful, incredible Marc wanted him every bit as much as he wanted Marc “and do they _really_ kiss each other like that in Antiva?”

“Only on the most formal occasions I think” Marcus laughed, putting his arm around Aidhan and nuzzling his nose against the Templar’s ear “Now, help me find my smallclothes; they’ll be ringing the lunch-bell soon…”

**9:41 Dragon Early in Frumentum (Harvestmere) City of Kirkwall**

The door burst open and Hawke leapt across the room; grabbing Marcus by the tunic and hauling him halfway off the bed, knife ready to strike

“Anders; go now! I’ll deal with Trevelyan” Hawke tightened his grip on Marcus’s collar, a trickle of blood running down the Inquisitor’s neck from where the razor-sharp blade pressed against his skin.  The Champion’s eyes narrowed and he glared angrily at the young man “I knew you couldn’t be trusted… I’m gonna make this hurt…”

“Garrett, stop…” Anders grabbed Hawke’s wrist, pulling the knife away from Marcus’s throat.  None of this was going right; Hawke must have heard his voice, talking to Anders, as he approached the door and jumped to his own conclusions, much as he always did.  He should have approached Varric first, but the Dwarf would likely have shot him on sight. “I asked him here.  I wanted to talk to him…”

“What…? Why?” Hawke stared at Anders in confusion, letting go of Marcus.  The still-bound man fell to the floor gasping for breath.  Anders stepped over and helped him back into a sitting position, crouching down to look him in the eye.

“Because I wanted to make him understand, and I think he does” He tilted his head questioningly, still looking directly at Marcus “Do you, my Lord?  At least a little…?”

Marcus cleared his throat, searching the older Mage’s face for any hint of deceit

“I understand…” he said, slowly and carefully “But I can never forgive…”

“I don’t ask your forgiveness, my Lord, I have no claim on that” Anders hauled Marcus up onto his feet. For a slight man, he was surprisingly strong “Your understanding was all I wanted…”

“Anders, what’s going on? What are you doing?” Hawke gasped as Anders started to undo the ropes around Marcus’s wrists “We need to get out of here…”

“Don’t worry, Garrett; Lord Trevelyan will keep his word…” He smiled slightly “You will, won’t you?”

Marcus nodded, rubbing his wrists to restore the circulation

“Provided you keep yours.  If you’ve lied to me, you’ll find me a worse enemy than anything you could imagine…”

“I know, my Lord; and I have a good imagination.  The girl will see you safely back to the Keep.”

Hawke moved to stand in the doorway, knife still in his hand; unable to believe that Anders was doing this.  It was beyond insanity…

“No, you can’t! This is crazy…  He wants you dead; they all do except me”

“Let him go” Anders insisted, his hands resting on Hawke’s chest “You’ll understand yourself, after we’ve spoken…”

Hawke moved to one side; slowly, unwillingly, and Marcus stepped towards the door. His eyes met Hawke’s and he touched the cut on his neck

“If I see you again, we’ll discuss this properly…” 

“Anders… what’s going on?” Confusion and uncertainty were written across Hawkes’s face “Why was he here… why are _you_ here?”

Anders took the younger man’s face in his hands and kissed him softly

“Calm down, and let me explain” He led Hawke to sit on the bed, and settled down on the stool facing him.  “All I wanted was to come and say goodbye, to see you one last time… I never intended all this to happen; never wanted to cause any more trouble.”

Hawke stared at him blankly; not comprehending why Anders was taking such a colossal, foolhardy, risk.

“What do you mean, ‘say goodbye’? Where are you going?”

Anders laughed, this sweet man could be so deliberately dense at times

“Where all Grey Wardens go, eventually.  It’s time. I feel it.”

Hawkes eyes widened and his jaw dropped in horrified realisation of what his lover meant

“No… no, Anders! No…” He shook his head urgently “That wasn’t real, it was a fake… Corypheus…”

“This isn’t a fake; I still hear it and it’s getting stronger” Anders tapped the side of his head “This is real and I can’t escape it.  I can’t run from this.”

Hawke was still staring at him, shaking his head in denial

“No; please…” his whispered miserably “You have to be mistaken…”

“I’m going to tell you a Grey Warden secret…” Anders moved to sit on the bed beside Hawke, putting his arm around him as if he was about to tell a bedtime story “It’s a very important one, about what the Calling really is…”

…It was the song the Old Gods sang to each other as they slumbered in their hidden caverns deep beneath the surface of the earth, and it was the most beautiful sound imaginable; no mortal singer could ever hope to come near it.  It was the sound the Darkspawn heard all the time, the reason they kept digging and delving.  They wanted to get closer to it; to become part of its beauty, not knowing that the taint of the Blight would corrupt the Old Gods into Archdemons and change the song forever.  It was tragic, when you thought about it, their very touch would destroy what they sought; warping and diminishing it…

…This was why he had to talk to the Inquisitor, had to take the risk, the secret he uncovered was too important to remain hidden but couldn’t be written down.  There were seven Old Gods, possibly eight, and each time one was corrupted the song became quieter, harder to hear, faint echoes in the back of the mind.  There had been five Blights, and five Archdemons; now Corypheus had what looked like an Archdemon at his side, but the song hadn’t faded any further…

“So…” Hawkes brow furrowed in thought “Whatever that is, it’s not a true Archdemon?”

Anders nodded

“It must be why Clarel couldn’t kill it at Adamant; and why Corypheus didn’t stay dead after you and Varric killed him…”

“And that’s why he’s letting you live?” Hawke grunted in disbelief “You’re a fool; there’s probably a squad of assassins on their way already.”

“He’s not letting me live, Garrett…”  Anders drew his lover a little closer “He knows I’m a dead man, I’m just getting the choice of how to die”

Hawke stared down at the warped boards of the floor, breathing heavily, mind racing

“There’s got to be a way, a cure, something we can do.  I’m not letting you go to the Deep Roads.”

“There isn’t a cure for the Taint, we know that, and I can’t go to the Deep Roads” Anders voice began to shake “I’m too scared… I always have been.  That’s why I ran from the Wardens, why I couldn’t go with you and Bethany… I’m so sorry, I was a coward…”

“You’re not a coward; you’re the bravest man I’ve ever known” Hawke wrapped his arms around Anders and lay back on the bed, pulling the older man down to lie beside him “No-one else had the courage to do what you did…”

“And look where it’s brought us…” Anders nestled in close.  He’d forgotten the comfort Hawke’s presence gave him; the strength of his arms, the warm, familiar scent.  Many night’s they’d lain together like this, just holding each other in silent tenderness.  “You know what you have to do, Garrett; you should have done it four years ago…”

Hawke felt the bottom drop out of his stomach and he sat up with a cry

“Anders, no… please; no… no… not that!  I can’t…  Please, we can think of something else” Tears ran down his face and he grasped Anders’ hands “I can’t… no… I can’t do that to you… I love you…”

“You have to, if you love me…” Anders reached up and stroked Hawke’s cheek, “If you don’t, then it’s the Taint, or the Darkspawn or Sebastian.  I’d rather it was you.  You’re good with a knife, I probably won’t even feel it…”

“Please… please Andy… don’t… don’t ask me to do this…” Hawke whimpered, but deep inside he knew it was the truth; his blade was the kindest fate Anders could hope for.  That was why Trevelyan was being so generous, this mercy was worse than any vengeance of his could ever hope to be. “I’ll be all alone… You… you’re all I have left…”

“You’ll never be alone, Garrett, there’s always going to be a part of me inside you, loving you forever…” He drew the weeping man back down beside him “We have till sunrise, one last night together; and before the end I want to tell you another secret… one you must never share with anyone else…”

In the first echoes of the dawn, Anders whispered his real name into Hawke’s ear; the last gift he could give his lover…

###

“Where were you?”

Marcus flinched at the sound of Cullen’s voice; he hadn’t seen him sitting hunched on the floor beside the bed, staring at something in his hands.  The journey back to the Keep had exhausted him, still half-drained of energy as he was, only sheer effort of will kept his feet moving.  Physically, mentally, emotionally; he had nothing left…

“Where were you?” Cullen asked again, still staring at whatever he held, sounding angry and upset “I needed you… and I couldn’t find you”

“Cullen…” Marcus groaned “Please…”

Cullen looked up, hearing the emptiness and despair in Marcus’s voice, the words of rebuke frozen in his throat as he saw the anguish in the young man’s face.  Marcus dropped to his knees, arms limp by his side, his body shuddering with sudden, violent, gasping, cries of pain and grief as he fell to one side.  The Commander leapt to his feet and caught him before he hit the floor.  He felt Marcus’s hands grasping at his arms and shoulders, and clasped him tight to his chest; alarm and guilt taking the place of anger…

“Marcus… My Lord…!  Maker… what’s happened?”

“Cull… Cull… I don’t… I don’t know… know how long I can… can do this…” Marcus choked out between sobs “It… it… it’s tearing me up… pulling me apart… and… and… and I d-d-don… don’t know h-h-how… how to make it all stop…”

“Oh, Marc… Marc… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry”

Cullen held him close, rocking the crying man gently in his arms.  Maker! How could he have been so selfish? Expecting Marcus to be there for him constantly, as if his problems were the only thing that mattered; the only things the boy had to deal with.  He should be the one that Marcus came to for comfort and support; he was his Lion, it was his duty to be strong and steady for his Lord whenever he needed him.  Wherever Marcus had been, whatever he had done, it had brought him to the point of collapse; only to be greeted by his possessive anger. 

“I’m sorry, my Lord, I’m sorry” Cullen kissed the top of Marcus’s head again and again “I should never have spoken to you like that… I’m sorry”

He wouldn’t blame the Inquisitor if he ordered him from his sight there and then; such conduct was inexcusable, in a Commander or a lover, but instead Marcus held onto him tighter, burying his face in Cullen’s chest.

“Please… Cull… Please just hold me… don’t let go…” he begged, still shaking from head to foot “Tell me it’s going… going to be all right… That… that I can do this…”

“You can do this Marc… I know you can” Cullen assured him “You’re strong, the strongest of us all; it’s just this place, it’s rotten to the core… Don’t let it drag you down…”

_I should be telling him this all the time… not making him bear my burdens as well as his own_

“I’m going to put you to bed, my Lord… you’ll be more comfortable there”

The muscles of Cullen’s legs were starting to cramp up; if he didn’t move soon he’d be in agony.

“Stay with me, Cull” Marcus whimpered, almost childlike, as Cullen helped him to his feet “Don’t leave me alone tonight…”

“I’m not going to leave you…” Cullen promised as he got Marcus onto the bed and lay down alongside him, still holding him tight “Unless you command it, I will never leave your side again.”

He wasn’t sure at what point Marcus finally drifted off into sleep, but Cullen continued to lie there; whispering quiet, soft words of love and encouragement into his ear.  The clothes he was in were worn and scuffed, and there was a cut on his neck; the night had not been kind to his Lord.  Cullen had his suspicions, but he promised himself he would wait until Marcus was ready to tell him; that he would neither rebuke nor scold.  Whatever danger Marcus had been in, he was safe in his Lion’s arms now; and that was all that mattered…

…The unopened vial of Lyrium lay, forgotten, under the bed where it had rolled when Cullen dropped it.

###

“I warned you, my patience is almost at an end” Prince Sebastian stood, or rather posed in the throne-room of the Viscount’s Keep “If the apostate is not handed over by noon, I will send my men down into Lowtown to hunt him out and you, my Lord Inquisitor, will be the one to blame!”

Provisional-Viscount Cavin had graciously permitted the Inquisitor the use of the Throne for his dealings with the Prince of Starkhaven.  If asked, he would probably have handed over the crown, the title and the keys to the city in exchange for passage on the first fast ship out of Kirkwall.  Marcus kept his composure well, despite the exhaustion he felt, his nerves still raw and strained from breaking down in Cullen’s arms.  A Lyrium potion would have put him back on his feet instantly, but he’d promised himself never to use Lyrium around his Lion so he would just have to cope as best he could. 

“You have hardly given us time to even begin a proper investigation, Prince Sebastian…” he responded, “How well do you think your mercenaries will do in hunting through an area that size, given the resistance to be expected and the costs involved?”

“My men will do as they are ordered…” Sebastian insisted, squaring his shoulders.  Marcus was sure the man had positioned himself in the exact spot for the maximum amount of light to glitter off his armour

“For as long as you pay them, and we both know your funds are limited” Marcus snapped back “I’m too tired for this bluffing, Starkhaven; you can’t hold Kirkwall and the other States won’t let you, so at least withdraw while you still have some shred of credibility and dignity!”

“And is that Kirkwall’s answer?” snarled Sebastian, stepping forward in theatrical outrage

“No, it’s the Inquisition’s answer; and…” Marcus pulled out the messages he’d received that morning “the answer of the Margraves of Markham and Ansberg, the Dukes of Hercinia and Wycome and the Lord Chancellor of Tantervale; Teryn Fernand is also concerned that your intentions violate the agreed terms of the alliance with Ostwick and he can no longer offer his support.”

Marcus wasn’t sure how much Lady Josephine was being paid for her services as Ambassador, but she deserved a raise.

“This is a righteous cause! And I am the agent of the Maker’s Will…”  Sebastian’s rant was cut short as the doors of the Throne Room burst open.  Marcus signalled the guards to stand easy as Hawke, grim-faced and pale, marched in with a dripping burlap sack hanging from his fist.  He threw the sack at Sebastian’s feet where it landed with a wet thud

“Now get the _fuck_ out of Kirkwall and don’t come back!” he barked, turning on his heel and striding out.  One of Sebastian’s guards bent down and looked in the sack, making a small retching noise.

“It… it’s the Apostate’s head… My Prince!”

A murmur ran around the Throne Room.  Marcus sat back on the Throne and inhaled slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself.  Sunny’s killer was dead, slain by the hand of his own lover; it was like something from the plot of an Antivan opera but he could find no joy or satisfaction in it.

“You have what you wanted” he said at last “and I believe the Champion has given you Kirkwall’s answer.  I suggest you accept it and leave.”

Sebastian glared at Marcus; the Inquisitor had turned his ‘Exalted March’ into a humiliating fiasco by giving him exactly what he wanted while exposing just how insubstantial his position was.  The Prince would be the laughing stock of every court in Thedas once news of this spread.  He glanced down at the sack at his feet.

“I’ll leave this mess for you to clean up!” he snapped.

###

Victory brought no sense of celebration either to the Inquisition or the rulers of Kirkwall.  Lowtown might be lighting bonfires and breaking open kegs of ale, but what little prestige the city clung on to had been badly damaged by the ease of its near-downfall.  Varric shook his head sadly as he leaned on the battlements, staring out over the harbour; Red and Curly looked like ghosts, drained by the constant pressure they’d been under since Adamant; and Hawke? Varric hadn’t seen him since the morning.  Whatever the Dwarf felt about Anders, Hawke loved him and that was a bad way for things to end up.

“Shit…” he muttered to himself then turned as he heard someone approach, relaxing when he saw it was Aveline

“You need to get a new Viscount, a permanent one!” he said, firmly “Kirkwall’s gonna need a real ruler if it’s going to recover.”

“Are you volunteering?” Aveline asked drily “Because I’m sure Cavin would be more than happy…”

“Hell no!” Varric laughed “Too much like a proper job, where’s the fun in that?”

###

Marcus sat on the bed in his chambers, turning the crystal paperweight in his fingers to make the striations catch the light; trying to remember the way the Brilliants on her dress sparkled on that afternoon back when their world was happy and innocent…

_Sunny, I miss you so much…_

He didn’t look up at the sound of footsteps, he knew who it would be

“If you’re going to do it, make it quick…”

The bed sagged slightly as Hawke sat down beside him

“I’m not going to kill you, Marcus; I probably never was…” He shrugged “You know me, I’m an arsehole”

“I know…” Marcus nodded “It’s part of your charm…”

“Anders was right about one thing, you’re a good man; and you’re trying very hard to stay that way…”

Hawke stared down at the backs of his hands, blinking slightly; it felt strange that he’d not shed a single tear since kissing Anders for the last time, sliding the blade into the spot that would kill quickest with the least pain, tasting his lover’s blood in his mouth as the light died in his gentle eyes.  He felt numb and distant, like he was looking at the world through the wrong end of a spyglass, but could sense the storm gathering deep inside and wanted to be far away from Kirkwall when it broke.  He’d brought too much bloodshed and pain to this city…

“…He tried to stay good, tried too hard and it broke him.  I hope that never happens to you…”

Marcus kept turning the paperweight in his fingers.  He couldn’t insult Hawke with any false sympathy, nor would his tongue let him form the words if he wanted; but there was one thing he could say, something he could at least attempt in order to make sure that none of this damned blood and grief was for nothing…

“Mages will always need safe places to live and study” he said quietly, staring at the daisies embedded in the glass “and there always has to be a defence against the misuse of magic; but it can’t go back to how it was.  Whatever takes the place of the Circles, it won’t be the same; I promise…”

Hawke shook his head.  Trevelyan would do his best, deep down he knew that, but at the end of the day he would only be one voice; albeit a loud one…

“Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep… Just try not to make the same mistakes”

“What will you do now?” Marcus asked.  Hawke shrugged again

“Go to Weisshaupt like I planned, then probably track down Fenris and hunt Tevinter slavers…” He stood and, on an impulse, ran his hand over Marcus’s close-cropped hair “You know, under different circumstances, you and I would have been pretty great together…”

“Probably…” Marcus laughed quietly “Take care, Hawke; it’s a tough world out there…”

“Tell me about it!” He paused, and handed Marcus a small bundle “I’ve said one goodbye too many today; give this to Varric for me, he’ll understand…”

Marcus looked down at the worn deck of cards Hawke placed in his hands

“I’ll make sure he gets it…”


	16. Homeward Bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter serves as an epilogue to ‘City of Chains’ and contains no game spoilers  
> On the voyage back from Kirkwall, Marcus attempts to offer a crumb or two of comfort to Varric while the Dwarf has words of advice for the troubled, and seasick, young Inquisitor.  
> Back on land, Marcus and Cullen share the first truly intimate moment they’ve been able to enjoy since before Adamant and Marcus has something to confess…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> Violence, strong language, slight homo-eroticism  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:32 Dragon; The Gallows, Kirkwall City**

The Rite of Expulsion was brutal, sanctified by long and inflexible tradition.  A Templar cast out of the Order was stripped of his armour, branded and flogged to the accompaniment of penitential verses from the Chant, then driven from the Commandery with nothing but breeches and an undershirt; that was a ‘mercy’ introduced a few Ages ago by some kind-hearted Divine, previously the culprit would be thrown naked and bleeding onto the streets.  Cut off from the Order, the Chantry and Lyrium, few Expelled Templars survived for long…

The entire Commandery and Circle was martialled in the Great Court of the Gallows to watch Ralegh Samson’s punishment carried out; the Templar ranks in the Court itself, Knight-Commander Meredith and her officers on the steps of the Keep, First-Enchanter Orsino and the senior Magi of the Circle behind them to witness that the Knight-Commander’s unforgiving discipline had no exceptions or exemptions.

The charges were severe and ludicrous; ‘Gross Moral Turpitude, Malignancy, Perverting the Discipline of the Circle…”  Orsino struggled to hide his contempt behind a habitually bland, closed, expression. Samson had been caught smuggling letters between a Mage, Maddox, and his lover in the city, a merchant-woman who sold cloth and other necessities to the Gallows.  In most other Circles, this would be a misdemeanour, punishable by a close confinement whose duration and strictness depended on the judgement of the Knight Commander, in the Gallows it was little short of High Treason.  According to Meredith, those affectionate little notes could be anything; the precursor to an escape attempt, coded communications to the apostates of the Mage Underground, _Blood Magic_ … and Samson’s involvement proof of a corruption that had to be cut from the Order like a tumour

_He’s guilty of the worst crime here… treating a Mage like a normal person…_

Other than the screeching of the seagulls and the thin, reedy, voices of the Sisters chanting the appointed verses, the only sound in the Court was the rattle of Samson’s armour hitting the flagstones as the straps and buckles were cut through.  The armour of an expelled Templar would never be re-used by another, instead the metal was melted down and turned into objects of the basest purpose; the symbolism not lost on those who watched.

Samson only screamed once, as the brand of the Broken Sword was seared onto the palm of each hand.  The same Divine who allowed expelled Templars to retain a shirt and breeches had also ordained that branding the face was incompatible with the compassionate teachings of Andraste, instructing that the hands should be marked instead. 

There was a defiance to the, now former, Templar’s silence as his wrists were tied to the flogging post and the lash tore into his back.  Privately, Orsino admired the man’s courage and will just as he cursed his own inability to do anything about this sadistic charade.  In theory, a First-Enchanter and Knight-Commander were equals; working together to govern and maintain the Circle as a safe and secure environment for Mages to live and pursue their studies.  Meredith treated the Circle as little more than a prison or a cage for dangerous beasts, she had even tried to block the appointment of a new First Enchanter to succeed Maceron, and he was powerless to save either Maddox or Samson from Meredith’s fury.

Maddox had already been made Tranquil, despite Orsino’s protests, the Knight-Commander wielded the Lyrium brand like a bad-tempered schoolmaster applied the birch.  Harrowed or not, the slightest infraction of discipline merited Tranquillity in her eyes and the Seekers had not seen fit to challenge her actions.  The best Orsino could hope for was the chance of convincing Grand-Cleric Elthina to use her influence, but the head of the Chantry in the State of Kirkwall was too afraid of unbalancing an already volatile situation.  With luck, and persistence, she might be persuaded to act eventually but not today… certainly not on behalf of a low-born Mage and a disgraced Templar.

At last, the chanting came to an end.  Samson was cut down and the semi-conscious man, his back a raw, bloody, pulp, dragged away to be placed in a boat and dumped on the harbourside.  Unless he was very lucky, he’d be dead of infection and Lyrium withdrawal within days.  Execution would have been more honest, but incompatible with the Chantry’s merciful loving-kindness.

Satisfied that all had been done according to the Rite, Meredith dismissed the assembled Knights and turned to make her way back into the Keep accompanied by her newest Knight-Lieutenant.  The young Fereldan Templar, Rutherford, who’d arrived barely a year ago; he’d shared quarters with Samson and Orsino could only guess what role he played in the discovery of the man’s ‘crime’ that had merited so swift a promotion and a place at Meredith’s side.  The man’s face was inscrutable, but the First Enchanter though he could glimpse the faintest uncertainty about the eyes; as if the Lieutenant was still trying to convince himself he’d done the Right Thing…

“A sobering experience, Knight-Commander…” Orsino’s bow and voice dripped with unconcealed sarcasm “One that I’m sure none here will forget in a hurry.”

Knight-Commander Meredith stopped, regarding Orsino with a cold, steady eye

“Do not make the mistake of thinking I take any pleasure in this.” Her tone of rebuke was unmistakable “If it were not for the weakness of others I would not need to resort to such harsh measures, something your Mages would be well advised to remember…”

“Those that are still capable…” Orsino muttered to himself as Meredith continued into the keep, followed by her faithful new guard-dog…

**9:41 Dragon Frumentum (Harvestmere) The Waking Sea**

They’d lost sight of Kirkwall an hour ago, not even the beacon of the lighthouse could be made out anymore, but the Vimark mountains were still visible as a faint ridge on the horizon.  Varric leaned against the stern-rail, gazing northward with a distant, thoughtful expression.  The Dwarf had been morose and withdrawn since Marcus told him about Hawke’s departure; he’d grown used to his friend coming and going at random over the years - Hawke had never been great with goodbyes - but this was different…  he looked down at the deck of cards in his hand and sighed heavily, shaking his head…

“He probably just wants you to keep them safe for him…” Varric glanced up as Marcus joined him at the stern.  The young Mage looked pale and a bit queasy, wiping his mouth as if he’d just thrown up; it was comforting for Varric that at least one person in the Inquisition was a worse sailor than him “No doubt he’s going to thrash us all at Wicked Grace when he gets back; leave us sitting round the table in our smallclothes”

Marcus looked down with an attempt at a smile.  Kirkwall had flayed their nerves raw and all of them were worn ragged; Varric most of all, much as he never had a good word to say for the place, Kirkwall was his home and somewhere out there his closest friend was going off to face Maker-knew-what alone…

“I get what you’re trying to do, Red, and thanks; but there’s no need…”  Varric shoved the cards into the pocket of his greatcoat, pulling it tight around him.  The wind was cold and sharp, they were only halfway through Harvestmere but the bite of winter was in the air; whether it was the effect of the Breach and the rifts, or just one of those years, it felt like it was going to be a harsh one… “Think we’ll get back to Skyhold in time for Satinalia?”

“Last message I had from Harding says the first snows are falling but the roads are still clear.  Maker willing, we’ll be there well before” Marcus gripped the rail, stomach churning as the ship rode a particularly heavy wave “I wasn’t sure if you’d be coming back with us, I mean…”

Varric shook his head with a dry laugh

“Too much still to do; besides, Aveline can look after Kirkwall fine now that you’ve sent Sebastian packing…” And there was no point in going after Hawke, he wouldn’t have welcomed it where he was headed.  Varric turned his back on the receding coastline, with this wind they should make landfall in Ferelden by late next morning “How’re you doing anyway? Kirkwall held some pretty rough memories for you…”

Varric had only encountered the Lady Alysanne briefly, when doing business with her father-in-law, but he remembered a vivacious, pretty, young woman full of laughter and joy, with a smile for everyone she met.  She’d called him ‘Serrah Tethras’ and jested about what the next instalment of ‘Swords and Shields’ should be; no wonder her death had torn Red up so badly…

Marcus took a deep breath, more to try and push down his growing nausea than anything else. Kirkwall had been where it all started, the tension and mistrust that finally erupted into full blown rebellion; tearing his life apart, sending him down the path that led him to the conclave and… and this! He looked down at the mark on his hand…

“I wanted Anders to be a monster, just an insane abomination driven by the urge to destroy. I mean… I knew the Gallows was bad, we all did.  I’d overhear Lydia talking about it with Raymon and Durward, saying how the Chantry needed to intervene…  but if even half of what he said was true…”

“Don’t let him get under your skin…” Varric warned. Sure, Meredith was crazy and her crazy hurt a lot of innocent people, but there was some seriously sick shit happening under the surface in Kirkwall that fucked with people’s minds.  The problem was that her madness, and Anders’, contained enough of the truth to drag you in and then you were _really_ fucked; It had happened to both Curly and Hawke, neither of them got away unscathed.  Red already had too many scars for a kid his age, Varric didn’t want to see him end up with more…

“…yeah, he might have been right about some of it but not all; the Gallows was pretty much hell and maybe some of it _did_ happen in other Circles…”

Marcus grunted, still staring in the direction of Kirkwall and the Marches.  Even if the abuse and the violence hadn’t been as widespread as Anders claimed, it still happened and was a damning indictment of everything he’d grown up believing in.  The Templars with Herrick hadn’t hesitated in what they did to him and Aidhan; two of them had been fellow novices with him, and he’d always thought of them as friends.  It was like they’d only been waiting for the opportunity… how much had they got away with in secret, careful to keep any hint from getting to Durward or Raymon?

“They just had to be more cautious in other Circles…”

Varric picked a bit of stray thread from his collar before looking back up at Marcus with an astute glint in his eye

“…which should tell you plenty.  You think Barris, or Lysette, or your old Knight Commander would turn a blind eye to something like that? Would you…?”

Marcus shook his head, something he immediately regretted as his heaving stomach decided to surrender its contents over the stern rail.  He regretted it even more as the wind blew half of it back onto him.

Varric laughed; the ridiculous quality of the moment briefly banishing the doubt and pain they both felt

“…And that’s why you should never throw up into a prevailing wind!”

“ _Thank you_ , Seamaster Tethras, for that sage advice” Marcus scowled, wiping vomit from his chin, then gave the Dwarf a rueful half-smile “I guess Shouting Stew beats Crisis of Faith, for now at least…”

“Blondie liked messing with people’s heads; most of the time I don’t think he even knew he was doing it…” Varric put a hand on Marcus’s arm “Adamant messed us all up really bad… I mean, demons, blood magic, all that Fade shit, losing Alistair; then right into the middle of this madness… I’m surprised any of us are still standing, _especially_ you…”

He paused, searching for the right words;

“…Shit, I guess I’m trying to say that we all have your back and you can trust us to hold you up so… maybe… when we get back to Skyhold you can take the hero hat off for a while and just be Marcus?”

“That would be nice; if I can remember who he is…” Solas had spoken about spirits as more akin to ideas than things; if that was true, then any idea was capable of being a spirit or a demon.  Varric’s advice went deeper than the Dwarf possibly realised.  Marcus knew that if let himself be taken over by the Herald of Andraste or the Inquisitor, a possession so subtle as to evade the notice of the most paranoid Templar, then he ran the risk of becoming something far worse than Corypheus.  It was like his Harrowing all over again.  He had to see the demon and control it, not let it gain access to his mind and will…

Marcus looked down at the fresh stains and sighed; few things brought you back down to mortal reality quite like chucking up your lunch…

“I assume the Lord Inquisitor puking all over himself is going to make it into whatever you end up writing about this?”

Varric chuckled as Marcus headed below decks to clean himself up

“Every single instance of it, Red, in glorious detail…”

Down in the Stern Cabin, Cullen hunched miserably over a bowl clasped firmly between his knees.  Marcus pulled off his soiled tunic and sat beside him, rubbing the back of his neck gently

“Cull… about what I did…”

Cullen looked up, his forehead beaded with sweat, expression pained and bilious

“Marcus… might… might we have this conversation on solid ground? I would rather…” he bent further forward, retching “rather not try… try to talk while my stomach is determined to crawl up my throat and escape.”

“Of course, I’m sorry…” Marcus leaned over and kissed Cullen’s neck where he had been rubbing it “I do love you, you know that?”

Cullen glanced sidelong at him, attempting to smile, affection mingling with surging abdominal chaos…

“That is… _heeeurghhhh…_ a great comfort in my final hours, my Lord”

###

They made landfall at West Hill early in the morning, thanks to a good tide and strong prevailing wind.  The ship flew no Inquisition colours and the small group of passengers who disembarked were unremarkable to the casual, or even the moderately interested, observer.  They could have taken to horse there and then, two days ride would get them to Caer Bronach and a further week or so to Skyhold, but the Sea Goose Tavern had an excellent reputation.  The temptation of a good meal and warm, dry, stationary beds was too good to pass up.

Cullen and Marcus took one of the large, upper-floor rooms; one of the better ones the tavern had to offer. ‘Complete with a bath fit for royalty’ the inn-keeper confirmed.  It was certainly spacious enough and Marcus regarded it with a sly smile

“That tub looks easily big enough for two, at least...”

Cullen nodded, sitting on a bench and massaging his instep.  It had been days since he’d last taken his boots off; his feet ached, and stank, a bath was badly needed

“Communal bathing’s not unusual in Ferelden; saves water, work and firewood...” He looked up, and saw from the glint in Marcus’s eyes that getting clean was not top of his considerations “Oh... I... I see”

Marcus winked, pulling off his undershirt

“Scrub my back…?”

###

Marcus closed his eyes and nestled comfortably against Cullen’s chest, letting the warmth of the water soak in as Cullen took a handful of soap and began lathering with a slow, circular motion.

“I’m sorry about Kirkwall…” he murmured at last “It was stupid of me to go off on my own like that.  I should have told you, or at least taken someone with me; Varric perhaps.  I put myself in danger…”

The movement of Cullen’s hands paused briefly then continued, his fingers progressing almost imperceptibly down Marcus’s chest and stomach towards the waterline.

“If you’d told me, I would have tried to stop you or sent soldiers after you; that could only have ended badly.  I wish you hadn’t done it but… but I was more concerned when you came back…”

He’d never seen Marcus so close to total despair as that night in the Viscount’s Keep, even in the blackest days after the fall of Haven, it scared and shamed him; Cullen had become so used to gaining courage and purpose from Marcus that he’d overlooked his lover’s own needs and fears, forgotten that the Inquisitor was still so young and carried so great a burden of responsibility and pain…

“…you showed me my strength when I had all but forgotten it.  Will you allow me to do you the same service?  Cassandra is used to bearing my burden, let her take it up again and permit me to help you bear yours…”

Marcus opened his eyes and took Cullen’s hand, rinsing the soap away and studying it carefully; the strong, square-tipped fingers, the odd crook of his thumb where it had been broken at some point, the calluses from years of wielding a sword and all the little nicks and scars marking him as a veteran of close combat.  He ran his own fingers over the light dusting of blond hairs on Cullen’s forearm.  There was something he had to tell him, had been meaning to say for months, but never been sure about when or how.  Something Cole had said in Kirkwall _‘He doesn’t believe he can ever be good enough for you…’_ stuck with him and Marcus suddenly knew what it was, this unspoken fear that lurked in Cullen’s mind; filling him with doubt and always threatening to taint what they had together

“I was terrified when I first saw you at the Breach… _Meredith’s Mabari_ …” Marcus felt Cullen flinch at his deliberate use of the old Kirkwall nickname.  Of course, they knew about him in Ostwick; it was scarcely a day’s ride to Kirkwall, if you didn’t care about your horse, and the world of Templars and Mages was a close-knit, gossipy, one.  You couldn’t mention Knight Commander Meredith without the subject of her zealous right hand also coming up; especially once the Knight Commander seized power after the Qunari were driven out.  Knight-Captain Cullen’s mutiny and his futile attempt to hold the Kirkwall Commandery together, as rebellion moved towards war, was the subject of frequent conversations among the senior Templars and Magi of the Ostwick Circle; congratulating themselves on their neutrality even as violence and terror crept inexorably closer to their cloistered, sedate, world…

“…I was sure I was just a hair’s breath away from a noose.  Seeing you at the approach to the Temple ruins, the way you glared at me, I thought I was done for; even if Seeker Pentaghast let me live there was no way I would survive you…  but then, something happened…”

“What…” Cullen’s voice was close to breaking and he cleared his throat several times before he could speak “What was that…?”

…Marcus had just chanced to glance behind him as the soldiers retreated, perhaps to make sure he wasn’t about to get a sword between the shoulder-blades; seen Cullen stop and turn back to help a man with a badly injured leg, taking the full weight of the wounded soldier on his shoulders and guiding him to safety.  There was something… compassionate… about the gesture…

“…Then, at Haven, you were visibly uncomfortable about being in the company of a Mage but trying _so_ hard to be approachable, to get beyond whatever distrust and anger you had inside.  This wasn’t the man I’d heard so much about, and that intrigued me… I wanted to know you better…”

Cullen was silent for a long time.  Marcus didn’t need to turn his head to know the man was crying

“…I know you’re scared that someday I’ll reject you because of who you were in Kirkwall.  That’s not going to happen, I already knew, and could see you fighting to break away from that.  Hearing that you’d stopped taking Lyrium, that you were risking death or madness to try and atone for what you’d done… I think that was when I started loving you…”

Cullen’s arms tightened around his chest and he gulped back a sob, trying to find words

“Why…. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to know that nothing you did then, _nothing_ , is going to change how I feel about who you are now.  I don’t care if it makes me a hypocrite, but that cursed shithole of a city is never going to stand between us and you _never_ need to be afraid it will.” He turned around, water sloshing over the side of the tub, and cupped Cullen’s face in his hands “In case you haven’t noticed, the Trevelyans are a stubborn bunch and we like to get what we want…”

Cullen took hold of Marcus’s wrists and kissed the palms of his hands, a smile slowly lighting up his eyes

“I’ve have noticed this Trevelyan is very good at getting what he wants…  I’ll just never stop being surprised that what he wants is me.”

Marcus leaned in and kissed him long and deep on the mouth

“That’s because I love you… and I’m not just saying that so you don’t yell me out for taking such a fucking stupid risk back there.”

Cullen laughed, relief and gratitude flooding through him, and flicked a handful of water into Marcus’s face

“I’m not going to yell at you, _Tusket!_ I wouldn’t want to spoil the lecture that Cassandra is preparing for your return…”

Marcus winced, the Seeker would have at least another week to think about that.  There was no doubt it would be thorough and creative…  He glanced sheepishly at Cullen

“It’s not too late to get a ship back to Kirkwall, is it?”


	17. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Mild Spoiler Alert***  
> Brief reference to one of the possible judgements of Lord Erimond but no significant plot spoilers.  
> Events at Adamant and Kirkwall overshadow Marcus’s return to Skyhold as both Grand Enchanter Fiona and Cullen have some questions for him.  
> Renovations to the castle don’t entirely meet with Commander Cullen’s approval, but Varric has news that gives him something else to focus on.  
> Lord Johan extends a special brand of Trevelyan hospitality to a former acquaintance of his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Strong language, frank discussion of same-sex relations, references to past rape/non-con, references to past torture, references to torture, threatened/referenced torture…  
> …Let’s face it, if you’ve followed the story so far you probably know what to expect by now  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to BioWare/EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:40 Dragon; Willowberg Keep, Terynir of Ostwick.  Ancestral seat of House Trevelyan**

“My dear, you should get some rest.  I will sit with him for a while”

The touch of Bann Lewin’s hand on her shoulder roused Lady Marjolaine from the doze she’d slipped into.  She shook her head, looking at the still figure lying on the bed

“I promised I would stay until he woke, or…”  her voice tailed off.  The healers were doing everything they could, but it was still in the hands of the Maker whether Marcus ever returned to consciousness.  She didn’t want to admit aloud that her youngest son might die, but the possibility remained and she had to prepare herself for the eventuality that a second child would go to the pyre before her.

She had been lucky, Lady Marjolaine reminded herself with a hint of bitter irony, many mothers birthed a dozen or more children never to see them live past infancy; or was it crueller to have Alysanne and Marcus grow into such fine young people only for them to be taken away?

_He still lives, there is hope… Andraste, merciful Lady; please, give me my little boy back…_

She wanted to hold his hand but those monsters had broken all his fingers and they were bandaged and splinted, so she had to content herself with touching his wrist and praying that he knew she was at his side, waiting for him to open his eyes…

Bann Lewin pulled up a chair and sat beside her

“I’ll keep you company then.  Perhaps… if we’re both here…”

Marcus was almost dead when Johan and the soldiers sent to secure the Circle Tower found him lying in a pool of blood; his friend, Ser Aidhan, dead some time past.  First Enchanter Raymon had told of how the two young men had fought, shoulder to shoulder, giving the old and the injured a chance to escape the slaughter.  Marcus had stood firm, to save the lives of others with no regard for his own.  Surely the Maker would not have blessed him with such a fine son only to take him like this?

_Punish me for my sins, if you must, but do not count them against my child…_

“We should both be proud of him…” Lady Marjolaine put her free hand on her husband’s arm, seeing the look in his eyes “His Grandfather was a Chevalier of the highest renown, and his father is one of Ostwick’s finest generals; how could he have done any different…?”

Bann Lewin took her hand and kissed it tenderly.  She had come to him as a stranger almost thirty years ago, barely 16 and far from home; just another alliance devised by Aunt Lucille to bolster the wealth and power of the Trevelyans, yet now he could not imagine life without this gentle, loving, woman at his side.

“We should, my love, and we will tell him that when he wakes…”

He moved his chair closer, placing his arm around her and resting her head on his shoulder, and together they settled down to keep their vigil…

**9:41 Dragon: Late Frumentum (Harvestmere) Skyhold**

“I see Red got his own way…” Varric chuckled, looking up the stairwell at the recently installed skylight.  Cullen shifted some reports on his desk and grunted irritably

“Hmmph… He’s very good at that…” 

Ser Morris, almost squeaking in terror, had informed an irate Cullen that ‘…urgent structural considerations, together with the approach of winter, necessitated immediate and thorough repairs to the fabric of the South Gate Tower during the Commander’s absence at the Siege of Adamant’ and that ‘…The Lord Inquisitor had given authority for the Quartermasters Office to undertake any such works necessary to ensure the security, and habitability, of Skyhold.’

It had to be said that Cullen’s quarters hadn’t been the only target of the Quartermaster’s zeal; several of the more decrepit chambers had been renovated to make them fit for habitation, and the gaping holes in the corridor leading to the Council Chamber finally repaired; much to Josephine’s relief.  When confronted, Marcus simply pointed out that the skylight covered the same area as the previous ‘gaping maw’, could be drawn back by a simple gear mechanism in fair weather and had been designed to ensure as uninterrupted a view as possible.  Cullen had to admit, grudgingly, that it did make his chamber warmer and dryer; while a proper staircase in place of the ladder was ‘sensible’. 

It just felt… well, he _liked_ it the way it was, even though he inwardly acknowledged he was being stubborn rather than practical.  The most annoying thing about it was that Marcus was right; the first snows, of what was predicted to be a hard winter, were falling and the tower was a significant part of the castle’s defences. Having a large section of its upper floor open to the elements was a foolishness Cullen would not have tolerated in one of his own subordinates; but still… he’d _liked_ it…

Cullen glared across his desk at the still-chuckling Dwarf

“Do you have some news for me, or are you just here to inspect Dagna’s handiwork?”

“Gotta appreciate fine craftsmanship…” Varric spread his hands apologetically.  It was an elegant piece of work; slender, curved, metal spars in place of the wooden slats usually used in such constructions, supposedly the same method used to build Empress Celene’s greenhouses in the Winter Gardens at Halamshiral “But I do have some news though…”

Red Lyrium was being transported to Starkhaven, according to Varric’s contacts, but that didn’t appear to be its destination.  It looked like Starkhaven was being used as a staging post, where the consignments were split up and moved elsewhere; a way of making them harder to track…

“This has to be Samson’s work, he always was cunning…” Cullen looked down at the map Varric handed him.  The movements were circuitous but in an eastward spiral, Nevarra perhaps, or beyond…? If they could follow their course it could tell them where the man had his headquarters “I’ll pass this on to Leliana, she can cross reference it with what her agents have uncovered; it might just give us the advantage we’re looking for… Thank you”

“There’s something else…” Varric hesitated and Cullen looked back across at him “About the Templars with Sebastian.  None of them are with the Red Templars, as far as I can tell, but…”

“But what…” Cullen’s eyes narrowed, alert to Varric’s evasiveness; a sure sign that whatever the Dwarf had to say would not be entirely welcome.

“Most of them are hardliners who didn’t like the idea of serving under a Mage, the rest are ones who might have… good reason… to avoid the Inquisition.”

“Go on…” Cullen’s voice was quiet and level.  Varric recognised the tone; anyone who knew the Commander and his moods did, and would be wise to be very wary of it.  He grimaced, reaching into his inside pocket and removing a carefully folded message.  How Curly would react to this was anyone’s guess…

“At least one of them is from the old Ostwick Commandery” he held the message out to Cullen “My informant overheard him boasting to a couple of his cronies about how he’d ‘…had that ginger twat over a bench, screaming like a speared hog…’”

Cullen extended his hand and took it from Varric, unfolding it and staring at the contents for a long time without comment.  Eventually, he folded it again and slipped it into the pouch on his belt.  His expression hadn’t changed noticeably and his voice was still even; Varric found the man’s taut stillness more unsettling than any explosion of rage.

“Thank you. I know someone who will appreciate this information” He returned his attention to the reports on his desk “I would rather Leliana does not hear about this; or anyone else for that matter.”

“Don’t worry; I understand! Red won’t find out…”  Varric turned to leave, pausing at the door “Take care of him, Curly… I’ve already lost one friend to this shit.  I don’t want to lose another…”

###

It was already late as Marcus made his way through the Rotunda, pausing to admire the progress on the fresco in the faint light flickering down from the lamps suspended high above.  Solas’s work was masterful, the images capturing the story of the inquisition in a sequence of stylised vignettes; Adamant as twisted shadows beneath the wings of the false Archdemon.  Cullen was still being huffy about the renovation of his chambers and Marcus was hoped that a couple of bottles of good Hercinian claret would lighten his mood.  He might even let him win a game or two of chess…

“Excuse me, My Lord… Might I have a moment?”

Marcus turned to see Grand Enchanter Fiona approaching him

“Grand Enchanter!” He smiled in surprised welcome and faint embarrassment, aware that he was clearly headed in the direction of the Commander’s quarters “It’s late, I… I didn’t think anyone would still be here.”

“I won’t keep you long, I know you have… business to attend to” Marcus couldn’t make out her features clearly in the half-light; she sounded tired, but still with a hint of amusement at the continued pretence of ignorance over a relationship the whole castle knew about.  “I didn’t get a chance to speak to you after the Memorial…”

In the days following their return to Skyhold, a memorial service had been held for all those who fell at Adamant; Inquisition soldiers and Wardens alike.  It was the largest battle the Inquisition had fought to date, not counting the rout at Haven, and many had lost friends or loved ones.  For Andrastian and non-Andrastian alike it had been an important moment to reflect, remember and express their grief.  For Marcus, Cullen and Varric, with the added burden of Kirkwall and its dark memories on their shoulders, it had been especially needed.

“It… It’s not about Erimond, is it?”  Marcus hadn’t expected the storm that the sentence of Tranquillity on Lord Erimond had provoked in some quarters.  The man’s crimes more than merited such a punishment, and the newly tranquil Magister was proving quite cooperative in providing information on his erstwhile master without the ugly need of torture; the way some of the more radical mages were reacting though, you’d think the Lord Inquisitor was Meredith reborn.  It was giving Leliana and her agents more than a few headaches to sort out…

“What? No… no… nothing like that…”  Fiona shook her head “I have no quarrel with your sentence, and the fuss will die down as soon as they see it isn’t setting a precedent…”

She hesitated and Marcus realised that what he had mistaken for tiredness was, in fact, a profound and weary sadness

“I just wanted to thank you, for what you said about Ser Alistair…  It… It meant a lot to hear how highly you thought of him…”

Marcus set the bottles down on the table and took Fiona’s hands in his. 

“Fiona, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you knew him…”  He’d never seen the two of them together at Skyhold, nor had the Grand Enchanter ever made more than a few passing comments about the Warden.

“I didn’t, only by reputation…  He was a good man” she looked down at Marcus’s hands, the faint green fluorescence of the Anchor in his left palm; the sickly hue of the Fade where Alistair had died “Did… did he say anything?”

Marcus sighed heavily

“He said… ‘This is how it always ends for a Warden, alone against the dark’” He felt a sharp pricking in his eyes and blinked hard to try and stop the tears “Damn… Fiona… I… I’m sorry.  I only knew him a little while, but…”

He sat down, burying his face in his hands; might as well get it out of his system before going over to Cullen. He felt Fiona’s hand on his head; a gentle, almost maternal, touch.

“You have no need to apologise, Lord Marcus; you and Cullen were the only friends who never turned on him, and it does you credit that you are not ashamed to mourn his death when there are plenty who will be relieved.”  She paused “I will be leaving Skyhold early in the morning, there are some… personal… matters I must attend to; but I am confident that the Mages are safe under the protection of the Inquisition.  I will be back well before you are ready to confront Corypheus…”

Marcus sat back up, drying his eyes

“If there’s anything I can do to assist…?”

Fiona shook her head

“You have already shown me more kindness than I deserve, or have the right to expect, and besides…” she nodded in the direction of the wine “I believe you have some strategies to finalise with the Commander.”

Marcus laughed as he stood and picked up the wine

“There are some… em… troop positions we still need to sort out…”

Fiona gave him a knowing smile

“I’m sure whatever _positions_ you and Commander Cullen agree on with be more than satisfactory…”

“Fiona!” Marcus exclaimed with a sly grin “I think you’ve been spending _far_ too much time around Dorian…”

###

The wine did help to smooth things over, and Marcus lost a couple of games adroitly enough for Cullen not to become suspicious, so it wasn’t long before the two men lay side by side in bed; a trail of discarded garments leading from the chess table and up the stairs.  It may have been a quality in the glass or some subtle enchantment, but Cullen thought the stars appeared clearer and brighter when viewed through the new skylight; although he wasn’t ready to surrender his point quite so easily _yet_ …

“I still wish you’d asked me” he grumbled. 

“I did - several times, and each time you responded ‘Hunh! I like it!’” Marcus sounded more than a little peeved “Forgive me for not wanting the man I love to freeze to death in his bed during a Frostback winter!”

Cullen sighed, finally conceding defeat.

“I’m sorry, I’m being an ass; it was a thoughtful gesture and I should be more grateful” 

Marcus laughed, his hand wandering across and down Cullen’s stomach

“I can think of a few ways for you to show that gratitude…”

Cullen sat up, twining his fingers around Marcus’s.  There was something he had to ask, it had been troubling him for a while; ever since Kirkwall, and particularly Marcus’s confession at West Hill.  Whatever was happening between them, it was becoming deeper and stronger; they had always been honest with each other but many unasked questions remained.  He couldn’t help looking at the signs of torture on Marcus’s body, the scars and burn marks, knowing that one of the men who inflicted them now lay within his grasp…

“When... When I’m with you, does it hurt?” he dropped his gaze “Please... Be honest with me...”

Marcus raised himself on one elbow, he’d been expecting Cullen to broach this subject eventually.  Their love-making was normally quite uninhibited but there was always the sense that one of them was watching out for any sign of discomfort or distress in the other; an unspoken fear of re-opening old traumas…  Anders’ frank questioning about his injuries had made him jittery and Cullen was certainly sensitive enough to have noticed this, and his recent visits to one of the Spirit Healers.

“A little, sometimes...” He admitted “when it gets really energetic, but...”

Cullen’s grip on Marcus's hand tightened and the Commander closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to try and ease the knot of tension he felt inside

“You… you have to tell me when it does, and I’ll stop. I... I don’t want you in pain for the sake of my... satisfaction.”

Marcus sat up, crossing his legs and placing his hand on Cullen’s shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze and rubbing his nose against the other mans cheek.

“Cull... believe me, if it ever hurts too much I’ll let you know, and I trust you to stop; but I don’t want you to think you have to hold back on my account. It’s...” He hesitated, wondering how best to explain “Well... You know how when we’re training and we keep pushing each other to go that little bit further, even when every muscle is screaming for rest?”

Cullen looked at him, puzzled by the apparent change of direction

“Yes, but that’s the only way to get results from...” He stopped, mid-sentence, frowning with doubt “Are… are you saying you enjoy it when it hurts?”

Marcus hesitated again; Bull would probably be able to explain this much better, certainly if what Dorian said was anything to go by, but it was doubtful if Cullen would appreciate the Qunari being invited round for a late-night symposium on the subtle distinctions of pain and pleasure.  He would just have to do his best…

“Not if it’s actually painful but, up to a certain point, the sensations are quite... stimulating, like when you’re running those last few yards or reaching the top of a difficult climb.  Hell… I don’t know… It just feels good sometimes” Cullen still looked perplexed and unconvinced.  Marcus leaned in and kissed him gently; “I know why you’re asking this, and I’m grateful for it, but I trust you and I feel safe with you. You don’t have to be afraid of letting go.”

Cullen nodded, the frown remaining as he tried to process this; he thought he understood what Marcus was talking about, but the idea was still difficult to grasp.  He got up to pour them both more wine

“I just...” He turned to face Marcus, holding the bottle in one hand “I don’t want to do anything that reminds you of what happened...”

Marcus sighed, pulling at a loose thread on the bedcover.  He was reminded of what happened whenever he closed his eyes; it was only with Cullen that he _could_ let go of that humiliation, even if there were times it did hurt more than he would ever admit to his lover

“I can tell the difference between rape and passion, Cull...” He fell silent for a few seconds “What I see in your eyes, what I feel when you’re with me...  when you’re inside me… It’s nothing like what they did to me, it never could be... When we’re together, it takes all that away”

Cullen handed him his wine

“I know I’m overthinking things again, Marc, and I’m sorry…” he took a mouthful of his own wine and shook his head sadly “All of this is still very new to me and I’m afraid of spoiling it…”

Marcus sat cradling the glass in his hands. Cullen _did_ tend to overthink things, no doubt the legacy of those times he’d acted from fear and hatred without stopping to consider consequences; it was understandable but it took him into too many dark places and they had been through enough darkness recently.  Suddenly, he smiled, and looked up at Cullen with a roguish expression

“You have to be honest with me too, if it’s getting a bit much; I mean… an old man like you can’t always be expected to keep up with my pace!”

“Old Man?? I’m barely 31!” Cullen snorted in outrage, then saw the look on Marcus’s face and his widening grin “And I can still thrash you anytime I want…!”

“Oho! Is that a challenge?” Marcus drained his wine and rolled off the bed, coming up crouched in a low grappling stance “The honour of the Trevelyans demands I accept…”

Cullen emptied his own glass and dropped into stance as well, the two men slowly circling each other

“Best of three?” He asked, set and serious but with the faintest twinkle of mischief in his eyes. 

Marcus nodded, still grinning

“Winner takes all…”

###

**Somewhere in Ostwick. Date uncertain**

The Templar retched as the gag was pulled from his mouth, the rank piece of cloth had been in there for two days, only removed briefly for water to be forced down his throat.

“You fucking bastards!” he croaked, squinting in the light of the candles, trying to make out his captors “I’m Sebastian Vael’s man, he’ll have your heads for this!”

“We know who you are, Ser Gavan, and who you serve...” The speaker was a thin, grey haired man in a well-tailored dark-grey velvet doublet and breeches; a hint of Nevarran in his accent. Behind him stood two, thick set younger men in light leather armour “Our employer is more interested in who you served before.”

They were in a cellar, cold and musty, wooden racks along the walls suggesting it had been used for storing wine at some point.  Ser Gavan spat contemptuously.

“Before? I’m a Templar, you asshole, I serve the Order, the true Order; not those Mage loving fuckers in Skyhold...” Ser Gavan twisted, trying to release his wrists but only tightening the cords binding them. “Look... I got friends, if it’s money you want...”

The grey-haired man shook his head, laughing dryly

“I very much doubt your friends could outbid my employer. Anyway, a contract has been agreed...”

Ser Gavan’s bravado was rapidly evaporating as the awareness of his circumstances began to sink in

“This is a mistake, it has to be... I’m just a Knight, not even one of the Prince’s escort... You got the wrong man!”

Another voice came from behind him

“You were with the Ostwick Commandery, stationed at the Circle Tower?”

Ser Gavan turned his head to try and see the man who was speaking. The voice was deep and precise with a familiar lilt.  An Ostwicker, well born by the sound of it; cold fingers of fear began to tangle the Templar’s guts.  There were plenty in that State who had grudges against the knights who sided with Herrick...

“I wasn’t one of the raiders Ser, please... I was just one of the guards at the Circle Tower...”

“I know” the man stepped into Ser Gavan’s line of sight “That’s why you’re here...”

The man in front of him was about his age, tall and strongly built, with cropped red hair and a well-trimmed beard; a noble, by the way he carried himself and the quality of his armour.  Something familiar about him, and the crest emblazoned on his breastplate; heraldry had never been the Templar’s strong point.

“Ser, whoever you think I am… whatever you think I may have done; I assure you, you’re mistaken…”

“I’m not mistaken, Ser Gavan, I know who you are and what you did.” The man pulled up a stool and sat so their faces were level “Are you sure you don’t know me?”

“Ser… I swear, I’ve never met you…”  The fear clawed tighter and sharper; there had been some good looting before the Templars got driven out of Ostwick, plenty of poorly defended villas, cloisters and farmhouses to ransack on the pretext of searching for rebel mages.  Maybe this man’s properties had been looted, there was something tugging at Ser Gavan’s memory

The man grunted in derision

“We’ve never met but I thought you might see the resemblance…” Johan Trevelyan leaned in closer “…to a certain ‘ginger twat you had over a bench’?”

Ser Gavan’s eyes widened in terrified comprehension, his heart racing…

“My Lord, no… I did nothing… I swear!  That… that was just drunken boasting!”

“Really?” Johan’s smile lacked any suggestion of humour “Because my informant, a very reliable man, says you were quite… detailed… about what you did to my little brother and Ser Aidhan”

Ser Gavan’s empty stomach spasmed and he struggled to speak between convulsive, painful, retches.

“I laid no finger on him… I swear... It was the others, not me...  I was just…”

He looked desperately around the small group of men, hoping to see some chance of bluffing his way out of this.  The soberly clad man with grey hair paid little attention, whistling a soft tune to himself as he unpacked instruments from a leather case, while his two burly assistants stood impassively, arms folded, awaiting whatever orders they would be given.  Johan Trevelyan sat back, hands on his knees, nodding in a pretence of understanding

“Oh, so you were just on the side-lines?  Heating the irons, sharpening the blades? Helping to hold them down while your friends did what they wanted...?”

There was only one name the Templar could think to throw at the stony-faced lord

“Ser, I beg you...  It was Knight Captain Herrick’s order.  We had no choice...”

Johan restrained the urge to drive his fist into Ser Gavan’s face until it crumpled into a mass of blood and bone.  There was always a choice. Marc and Aidhan could have escaped, left Raymon and the others to their fate, but they chose to stay and fight knowing what the cost would be.  No matter who gave the order, there was always the choice to say ‘No… I will not let this happen.’   

“Then understand the choice you do have, Ser Gavan.  You’re not going to leave this room alive, but you can decide if you die quick and clean; or if _you’re_ the one screaming like a speared hog...”

“My Lord, I had no choice... Don’t do this…. Please... Have mercy”

Lord Johan unsheathed his dagger, the polished Antivan steel sparkling in the candle-light

“This is the only mercy you can expect from me…” he held up the blade so Ser Gavan could see it clearly “and only if you tell me where I can find Knight-Captain Herrick”

“I don’t know, My Lord… that’s the truth… I haven’t seen him since we left Ostwick…” The pitch and volume of Ser Gavan’s voice increased with his panic, urine soaking his breeches as his bladder finally gave way “I can help… help you find him, and the others! Please, My Lord… give me a chance, I beg you…”

Johan stood, sheathing his dagger, eyes cold and unforgiving

“I don’t need your help, I only wanted to see how quickly you would betray your comrades…” he turned to the Nevarran, ignoring Ser Gavan’s hysterical pleading “They had my brother for three days, he is to live that long, at least.  For every day he lasts beyond that, you and your assistants will receive a bonus.”

The grey-haired man bowed appreciatively

“My Lord is bountiful, and I am honoured you chose me as the instrument of House Trevelyan’s vengeance.  I will not fail you in this.”

Johan closed the door behind him as he left.  Meister Van Neidr was a man of his word, and an artist of pain, there was no need to stay and observe his work.  The Champion of Ostwick was no sadist, but there was a price to be paid for what had been done to Marc and Aidhan and that would be exacted in full.  There was other business to attend to, anyway; he still had to decide which pony to get Lucas for his birthday, then there was the matter of how to appropriately thank Ser Cullen for his generous assistance in this affair…


	18. Feasts of Misrule

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Feast of Satinalia brings a change of pace to Skyhold as Marcus and his advisors enjoy a surprising evening in the company of Dorian Pavus; while the Feast of Misrule serves as a reminder of why you should always be polite to the people who pour your drinks – especially if one of them is a mage with a ripe sense of humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger warnings***  
> Slight homo-eroticism, bad jokes and bawdy humour.  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

*****A Note on Thedosian Holidays*****

**The Feast of Satinalia; celebrated over several days at the beginning of Umbralis (Firstfall in common parlance), the 11 th month of the Thedosian calendar, is one of the oldest feasts still celebrated. Originally dedicated to the Dragon God of Chaos, it is traditionally a time of wild feasting and revelry – a character it retains even though it is now officially associated with Satina, the second moon, and often followed by an equal period of fasting and prayer.  The First Night of Satinalia is traditionally the Feast of Misrule, where all social norms and conventions are overturned for the night…**

*****Soporati (sleepers) The majority, non-mage, citizens of Tevinter.  Many live just above the level of slavery but the classification also covers a great many military officers, members of the Lower House of the Senate, civil servants and wealthy merchants, actors, entertainers, courtesans etc; making it as diverse as any other population in Thedas**

**9:40 Dragon; Umbralis (Firstfall) First Night of Satinalia – the Feast of Misrule: Val Royeaux**

Bonfires blazed in the great Plaza before the Grand Cathedral.  Crowds of revellers, their masks and costumes outrageous even by the most extreme Orlesian standards, surged around them dancing and singing.  Mugs and goblets were plunged into great, open, casks of wine and a riot of music and noise rose up into the clear night air, echoing far through the Cathedral and into the private apartments of the Divine herself.  In the darkness of the arcaded cloisters around the plaza even greater indulgences were no doubt being embraced.  Cassandra Pentaghast, the Right Hand of the Divine, stood at one of the windows; looking distastefully down at the spectacle below.  With Orlais’ civil war locked in a bloody stalemate, and no end in sight to the fighting between Mages and Templars, Misrule did not appear to be a thing worth celebrating.

“You are not joining the festivities?”

Cassandra turned at the sound of the familiar voice, bowing low

“Most-Holy!  Forgive me, I thought you had retired for the night…”

Divine Justinia V smiled and shook her head

“At my age, one needs little sleep; and you have not answered my question…”

Cassandra glanced briefly back at the crowds in the plaza below

“It would not be… appropriate; Most-Holy. My place is at your side tonight, there are too many dangers in the city.”

Justinia sat down at her desk, chuckling at Cassandra’s stalwart sense of duty even on a night when almost all license was permitted

“The First Night of Satinalia is a time for the inappropriate” opening one of the drawers she took out a bottle and two glasses “Half the Clerics are probably out there being fondled by boatmen and apple-sellers; the other half wishing they had the courage to put on a mask and join them.”

“That might be so…” Cassandra hesitated while Justinia filled the glasses “But it would not be appropriate for me”

The Divine sighed softly and indicated a chair beside the desk

“Then you can at least sit for a while and share a drink with me” Her eyes twinkled with a hint of merriment “A token impropriety to keep the Feast?”

“If you insist, Most-Holy, I cannot refuse your order” Cassandra conceded, sitting down and accepting the offered drink.  Without her brocaded robes and ornate mitre, in the plain habit of a Chantry Sister, the Divine appeared diminutive but her presence still commanded the room.  Justinia V had never needed the trappings of power in order to wield it efficiently.  The elevation of Revered Mother Dorothea to the Sunburst Throne, as successor to the much-revered Beatrix, had been controversial.  She was too worldly, it was said, overly sympathetic to the Mages and determined to curb the ever-growing power of the Templars.  Some blamed her for the present crisis, others saw her as the only person capable of resolving it.

“If you need an order to share a glass of spirits with a lonely old woman, then consider it such” Justinia looked questioningly at the Seeker “You are troubled, my dear, what weighs on your soul?”

Cassandra hesitated a moment

“Most-Holy… what you are asking of me…”

“Will not be required if the Conclave succeeds in its purpose” Justinia interrupted “and if it fails you may find yourself confronting both Mages and Templars; so, I am asking either nothing or a very great deal.  Neither of us can tell which it will be, but I pray it will not be needed.”

“As do I, Most-Holy, but I will fulfil your command.” Cassandra set her empty glass down on the desk “With your permission, I shall leave for Kirkwall first thing in the morning”

Justinia frowned slightly; Cassandra was a loyal and zealous ally but prey to some odd obsessions at times

“Do you really believe this Hawke to be the man we need?” she asked cautiously “Even for many of the Mages he is a divisive figure.  I’m not even sure if he would agree to your proposal if you could find him; he does not seem to trust the Chantry very much, or me…”

“The Rebel Mages respect him” Cassandra assured her “He is our best chance of winning their support, should that become necessary.”

“That may be so, but be careful of investing too much in this man” Justinia warned “We must have faith that the Maker will show us the right course in due time…”

“I understand and I will trust in His Grace to guide me.” She got up from her chair and walked around the desk, dropping to one knee beside the Divine’s chair “Your Blessing, Most-Holy, for the journey and the task ahead of me.”

Justinia placed her hands on the Seekers head

“The Maker hold you in His Light and guide you in your way, and may Our Blessed Lady be your companion always” she prayed, then bent her head and kissed Cassandra’s forehead “Travel safely my child; I will see you again at the Conclave…”

**9:41 Dragon Umbralis (Firstfall) Eve of the First Night of Satinalia: Skyhold**

 “Were you aware that we’re cousins?” Dorian asked Cassandra, smiling sweetly as he topped up her glass “Distant, admittedly, but the relationship is still there”

“And just how do you work that out…?”

Cassandra appeared distinctly unimpressed by this revelation

“I was doing some research into our dear Inquisitor’s ancestry” he gave a genial nod to Marcus “and discovered that Eusapia Trevelyan, sister of Bann Eugene, married Lucullus Pentaghast in 7:32 Storm, making you remote cousins...”

“That is not surprising, the Pentaghasts are related to a great many of the Free-Marcher nobility, although the connection is not displeasing” she gave Marcus an almost-smile before turning her attention back to Dorian “However I still fail to see how that makes _us_ relatives”

Dorian’s smile became even more impish than normal

“It just so happens, the grandmother of Eugene and Eusapia was one Scribonia Pavus; sister of Magister Aurelian Pavus, putting all three of us in roughly the same degree of kinship...”

“Quite the family gathering!” Leliana observed, drily, while Dorian positively bounced with glee

“I know! If I dug around a bit more I could surely discover some relation who links us to Lady Josephine...” He winked at the ambassador who was giggling behind her hand, and his expression turned roguish “I even hear rumour that our dear Commander Cullen has a little bit of Trevelyan in him... at least on occasion”

“Dorian...!” Cullen growled in warning, although even he couldn’t stop a faint twitch of a smile

“Less of the _little_ , thank you very much…” Marcus muttered under his breath, provoking more giggles from Josephine

“Oh, come now!” Dorian spread his hands in appeal to the assembled company “The ongoing conceit that the Inquisitor and the Commander are just good friends and colleagues is very charming; but I think that tonight, amongst friends and _family_ , we can allow them a little bit of Satinalia snuggling. So, if my _dear_ cousins Cassandra and Marcus would care to swap seats?”

“I have no issue with that suggestion!” Marcus laughed, refilling his own glass “Cullen...?”

Cullen glanced at Cassandra, seated beside him on the couch, then back to the genially grinning Dorian.  He wasn’t quite sure how the Tevinter had insinuated himself into their gathering. It was meant to be a private get-together for the Inquisitor and his senior staff in Marcus’s private chamber, a breathing space before the Satinalia festivities began in earnest, but Dorian had cornered Marcus in the Great Hall over some technical point for tomorrow’s feast.  Before long he was firmly ensconced in their midst; over-pouring the wine and regaling them with hilarious, if scandalous, stories of his mis-spent youth in the Minrathous Circle.  Cullen had to admit, it was making the evening far more entertaining than he’d anticipated.

“I…” he paused, Dorian was right; maintaining the pretence in this company was ludicrous, he turned back to Cassandra “Lady Cassandra, would you mind…?”

“Not at all, Commander; for once I am in agreement with Lord Dorian…” She rose, with only a hint of unsteadiness.  Dorian chuckled to himself as he uncorked another bottle, sometimes wine and wit worked wonders magic could only dream of; the evening was going much as he’d hoped “Even if he _is_ making it very easy to continue my habit of disliking the majority of my relatives on principle…”

Marcus settled himself on the couch beside Cullen, nestling up against him with a happy little grunt; after a moment’s hesitation Cullen put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and pulled him in closer so their heads were resting together.

“I thought you would be with Bull this evening…” Marcus asked, “Or is Satinalia Eve not a Qunari thing?”

Dorian laughed

“I don’t know if it’s a Qunari thing, but it’s certainly a Bull thing…” Dorian paused to savour the aroma of the wine; for a provincial Marcher, Marcus certainly had superb taste in vintages “There’s some kind of singing contest in the Herald’s Rest tonight; all the others are there but the thought of bad beer and tuneless warbling made my stomach turn…”

“Damn! I wish I’d known about that; why do I never hear about the fun stuff?” Marcus glanced round at the others “It’s always bloody Darkspawn or Venatori or Teagan with his small-clothes in a bunch, never ‘There’s a piss-up in the Herald tonight; you game for it?’”

“I wanted to go…” Cullen grumbled into his glass “Varric said I’d be a wet blanket.”

“How much have they had to drink tonight…?” Josephine whispered to Leliana who, despite having apparently matched everyone glass for glass, still appeared completely sober.  The spymistress smiled slightly

“Just over a bottle each so far, plus whatever was left of the Flames of Our Lady…” she whispered back, then resumed her normal speaking tones “I believe it was felt your position might put you at an unfair advantage in the competition…”

“Bollocks!” Marcus retorted “I’m a great singer, you should hear me do ‘The Merry Warden’”

Dorian sipped his wine with a sly smile; if it sounded anything like Marcus doing ‘The Strapping Young Templar’ they’d _all_ heard that at one point or another… 

Cullen frowned slightly

“I don’t think I know that one; is it an Ostwisk… I mean an Ostwick song?”

“You’re getting drunk, Cull… and it’s an everywhere song, listen…” Marcus hummed a few bars and Cullen sat up straight, his face brightening.

“I know it! ‘The Tainting of Fair Jenny’…” he cleared his throat “ _Once a warden came a-calling…_ ”

“That’s the one!” Marcus grinned, clearing his own throat and joining in _“At the time the leaves were falling…”_

“Ugh…” Cassandra rolled her eyes “You’ve got them started now, they’ll be like this for the rest of the evening.”

“Shush, Cassandra…” Leliana tapped her reproachfully on the arm, possibly the only member of the Inquisition who could get away with doing that “I’ve not heard this in years…”

Inwardly the Seeker was pleased, although wild horses couldn’t drag that admission from her lips.  In her own, private and reserved, way she cared deeply for Cullen and Marcus; it had been a shock to see the state they were in on their return and she’d feared that Adamant and Kirkwall had pushed them both beyond the limits of their endurance.  She hadn’t needed to be told of Marcus’s breakdown; it could be seen in the young man’s eyes, heard in his voice.  His faith and confidence had been shaken to the core and only the Commander’s presence at his side seemed to hold him up. Cullen himself looked weary and drawn, the intensity of his own inner struggle marked by the deep lines of stress and worry in his face; lines that melted away as he joined his lover in the notoriously bawdy folksong, both of them happy in each other’s company and almost oblivious to the others. 

Cassandra glanced over at Dorian and saw he was listening to the two men sing with a misty, almost fond, look on his face.  She might not trust the Tevinter, but just now she was prepared to tolerate him; whatever the motivation for his presence, he did at least appear to be genuine in his friendship for Marcus and Cullen and have some understanding of the shadows they had to contend with…

“Brava! Brava!” Dorian applauded as the song came to an end, both Marcus and Cullen had fine voices which complemented each other perfectly “Those louts in the Herald don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Oh! Oh! Do ‘The Sailor’s Lament’…” Josephine clapped her hands joyfully, almost skittish, the flush of wine in her cheeks

“Now, now!” Dorian waggled a finger at her “I think one of you ladies should favour us with a song next…”

“I might know one or two…” Leliana smiled, realising that against all expectation she was enjoying herself in a way that she hadn’t for a very long time.  Dorian beamed

“Excellent! However, as your self-appointed Master of Festivities I feel…” He stood and began to refill their glasses “I feel that, while I am still capable of coherent speech, I should offer a toast…”

“A toast?” Cassandra’s brows furrowed “To what?”

“To whom, sweet cuz, not what!” Dorian smirked at Cassandra’s grunt of distaste and turned, only slightly wobbly, to address the small group; glass raised high “Not to the Herald, or the Inquisitor, or even the Lord Trevelyan; but to our own, dearest, Marcus…”

Dorian paused, clearing his throat, a genuine depth of emotion slowly working its way through his habitual levity

“…a true and loyal friend and comrade; whose generosity and warmth of heart is a beacon of hope in this time of fear and suspicion, who has stood with us in the darkest, most terrible danger; whose courage, and passion for what is right, inspires us all to be a little better than we thought we could be…”

He drained his glass and gave a slight bow

“…Marcus, may your light never be dimmed by the shadows of this world.”

Cullen gave Dorian a look of sincere gratitude and turned to Marcus, stroking his cheek

“Might… Might I add…” he kissed Marcus softly on the lips “…To the man who shows me what it means to be loved, even when I believe I don’t deserve it…”

Marcus sat quietly with his head bowed, tears running down his face; Dorian’s words, and Cullen’s, touching him in the very core of his being.  He almost laughed at the elegant simplicity of the Tevinter’s ploy.  Skyhold might stand many leagues from Willowberg but, right now, he knew he was surrounded by a family who cared for him deeply and whose faith in him remained unshaken despite any doubts that might nag at his heart.

“Thank you…” his voice was almost inaudible at first “…all of you.  I… I pray that I can be worthy of the trust you’ve placed in me.”

“You already are…” Cassandra got up from her seat and crouched in front of him, taking his hands “and we are here to hold you up when that burden becomes too much.  We will not let you face what is to come on your own…”

After a while, Dorian let out a deep breath and refilled his glass

“Ah! Now that we’ve all got those awkward little bits of dust out of our eyes…” he turned to Leliana, his voice once again bright and chirpy “What are you going to entertain us with?”

###

“...and so, the Templar says to the Sister; ‘I don’t know either, but it wasn’t that shape when we started’...”

Leliana almost shrieked with laughter

“Cassandra! That’s disgusting! Where did you hear that?”

The Seeker raised a haughty eyebrow

“From Knight-Captain Rylen if you must know.  The man has quite a fund of anecdotes, all of which he swears are true…”

Dorian shook his head ruefully

“It’ll be weeks before I can eat smoked cheese without thinking about that…” he turned his head at a gentle tap on the shoulder from Josephine and looked towards the couch.  Cullen lay sprawled back against the cushions, snoring softly, with Marcus’s head pillowed on his lap “Should we put them to bed, do you think? They’ll have _dreadfully_ stiff necks in the morning otherwise…”

Even with Dorian helping, it took a while to get the two, semi-comatose, men from the couch to the bed.  Cullen didn’t stop snoring the whole time, mumbling something incoherent the moment his head hit the pillow and wrapping his arms tightly around the sleeping Marcus

Cassandra turned to Dorian as they left

“I don’t often have cause to say this but... Thank you, Dorian, for what you said tonight.  Marcus needed to hear it.  I’m ashamed none of us thought to say it before now…”

Dorian poured the last of the wine into his glass and set the empty bottle on the window-ledge as they walked down the stairs

“It just required the right time and place; and the company of dear, loving, relatives of course…” He glanced at Cassandra and laughed lightly “…and you’ve got that angry little knot between your eyebrows again… _delightful!_ ”

###

“Oi! Rutherford!” Sera yelled “Go find Quiz and tell him I’m still waiting on my bloody wine…”

Cullen growled as the bread-roll she threw bounced smartly off the back of his head

“Of course, _My Lady_ …” he grumbled and turned to Vivienne, “You’re taking all this in remarkably good spirits”

Vivienne laughed as she accepted the platter of steaming sweetbreads from the cook with elegant grace

“Let the peasants have their fun, darling…” she adjusted the balance of the platter to her satisfaction and picked up the serving spoons “Tomorrow all will be as it should be once again.  Surely even in the Gallows they celebrated the Feast of Misrule…?”

“Not like this…” Cullen muttered between clenched teeth.

The Feast of Misrule dated back to the earliest origins of Satinalia, when the days of winter feasting had been dedicated to the Old God of Chaos, a celebration of inversion where social norms turned upside down.  In Tevinter, according to Dorian, it was still a time when slaves took the place of masters for a day and Soporati were exalted above Magi.  Under the Chant of Light, the association with the Dragon of Chaos were firmly banished; official Andrastian dogma declared it a celebration of humility and a reminder that social station depended on the Maker’s grace.  Under the Lord of Misrule, servants and peasants feasted while their Lords and Ladies waited on them. 

It had been celebrated in the Gallows to an extent but misrule, regardless of Chantry sanction, found little favour in the eyes of Meredith Stannard and for the Templars of Kirkwall it was a merely a time of greater vigilance…

“Move that pretty arse, Rutherford!” Sera shouted, standing up on her chair “I’m fucking parched here…”

Some were definitely taking greater advantage of the Feast than others.  Scout Jim, who had the dubious honour of being elected the Inquisition’s first Lord of Misrule, shuddered in the High Seat as he caught a glimpse of Cullen’s expression.  Technically there were no repercussions for anything, within reason, that happened during the Feast; but it would be a very foolish trooper who said or did the wrong thing in the Commander’s vicinity over the next few days.

Cullen made his way down the back stairs and through the passage to the wine cellar; mumbling a range of colourful obscenities some would be surprised he even knew.  His mood wasn’t improved by finding Marcus in the cellar, perched on a barrel alongside a dark-skinned young man in dun-coloured leathers, sharing the last bottle of the particular wine Sera was demanding.

“This is Doryn, the kennel-hand…” Marcus declared cheerfully, waving the half-empty bottle in Cullen’s direction “He’s been telling me how they celebrate Satinalia where he comes from…”

“Where… Rivain?” Cullen asked, too dumbfounded to think clearly

“Nah mate… Denerim…” Doryn grinned, hopping down off the barrel “Anyhow, dogs gotta be fed even on Misrule Night.  Nice talking to you Marc… anytime you want a pup just let me know.”

“Thank you!  I’ll see a few good cuts of meat get sent your way before the Feast’s done…” Marcus turned to Cullen as Doryn left “I’d almost forgotten how much fun being a servant for the night could be.”

“I’m glad to see someone’s enjoying himself!” Cullen snapped, his thinly stretched patience almost broken “And what the hell are you doing with the wine? That’s the last of the Val Chevin!”

“Making room…” Marcus smirked, standing up and unlacing his breeches

“Room… room for what?” Cullen’s puzzled look turned to open mouthed horror as, with a contented sigh, Marcus began to relieve himself “Oh…! No…! That’s…”

“Why you should always be polite to kitchen and cellar staff; a rule every sensible Lord knows, but which _certain people_ appear to have forgotten…” He shook the last few drops off and set the bottle in a bucket of ice to cool down “and certain _other_ people need to relax a little; the Feast still has hours to go…”

Cullen stared in Marcus in astonished disbelief as he came across and began undoing the older man’s breeches…

“Marcus… no… there’s a limit!  I am _not_ pissing in… oh… _Oh!_ ” realisation flashed like lightning in his eyes as Marcus grinned and dropped to his knees “Marc… no...! wait…! Any… anyone could walk… _Oh!_ _Maker!_ ”

Cullen grabbed onto the shelf behind him for support as his knees threatened to buckle…

###

“Now that’s what I call a _really_ posh plonk…” Sera set the empty bottle down on the table with a thump and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand “Just a pity it’s the last one…”

“Well, if you like the fruity aftertaste Milady, I’m sure I can find a… er… _similar_ vintage for you to try; possibly something a little more _Fereldan_?”

Marcus winked at Cullen, who flushed red all the way down to his collar

“Nah…” Sera shook her head “That stuff tastes like piss…”

 

 


	19. Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoiler Alert***  
> Potential mild spoilers for Warden Blackwall’s story-arc  
> What does it mean to become a Knight of the Templar Order? On the eve of his Vigil, the 18-year-old Cullen Rutherford receives his final guidance as a Novice from Knight-Commander Greagoir and prepares himself for a ritual that will transform his life.  
> Twelve years later, Commander Cullen still struggles with the consequences of that day; a struggle intensified by the forced inactivity of winter. A chance to escape the confines of Skyhold and, purely coincidentally, spend some time alone with Marcus confronts the Commander with another reminder of his past; making him fully realise what he has lost and what he has now…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Some references to withdrawal symptoms, slight homo-eroticism. Strong emotions  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:29 Dragon: Kinloch Hold, Ferelden**

“After Evensong you will be asked to make a series of oaths, after which you will remain in the Chantry, spending the night in prayer and contemplation before the Eternal Flame.  At sunrise, you will be received into the Order and taste the source of our power for the first time.  Your life will no longer be your own, it will belong to the Maker and Our Blesséd Lady Andraste; the Order will be your only home and family, you will go where we command, serve as we command.  You will have no rank or title save what the Order grants you, possess nothing save what the Order assigns for your use.  Your sole purpose will be to serve the Maker, and to die in that service if duty requires.  Do you understand?”

Ser Greagoir gave this lecture to every aspirant on the eve of his, or her, vigil.  He must have given it scores of times but it never failed to touch him to the core, stirring memories of when he had knelt before the Revered Mother and Knight-Commander in the darkened, incense-sweet, Chantry and repeated the words of the Oath.  For the young aspirant in front of him, eyes glowing with the fervour of faith as he stared at the Order’s banner hanging behind Greagoir’s chair, it would seem like he was about to be reborn.  In a sense, he was.  A Templar died to his old life and became something new, a flaming sword in the hand of the Maker; swift to punish the evil-doer and protect the innocent.  A pity some Knights failed to remember that, although he had few doubts about the young man standing before him.

“I understand, Knight-Commander…” Cullen Rutherford replied, “and I pray the Order finds me to be a dutiful servant.”

“I am sure that we will, Cullen” Ser Greagoir nodded approvingly “You are excused from duties for the remainder of the afternoon.  I suggest you take some rest; the Vigil is arduous, even for the young, and sleep a constant temptation.”

He’d been dubious when Ser Jerrold arrived with the lanky young farmboy from Honnleath; all knees and elbows, gawping at the sight of Kinloch Hold like he was beholding the Throne of the Maker Himself.  The boy had probably never seen anything bigger than the village Chantry before. Thirteen was old for a novice to begin.  Many came to the order around the age of eight or nine, donated by some pious noble family in fulfilment of an oath or because they had too many heirs already; some were received even younger, often in lean years when peasant households found they had more mouths than food.  Infants and toddlers were brought up by the Chantry Sisters until they came to the appropriate age, after which they would be channelled either into the Order or the Chantry; depending on temperament or inclination.

Despite Ser Greagoir’s reservations, the boy had grown into a stalwart young man and more than proven himself; showing greater progress and zeal in five years than some had in ten. A little shy and withdrawn perhaps, despite his height and strength, but that was not necessarily a bad thing; it seemed to have protected him from some of the _baser_ temptations that could befall a handsome young novice.  According to the Mothers he was pious, serious and thoughtful, without being dangerously fanatical, although Revered-Mother Gwladys thought him a bit _too_ serious ‘He needs to laugh more; but some farm-girl’s loss is the Order’s gain…’ she’d joked, when Greagoir asked her opinion. 

He’d not been too surprised to hear the young novice was firm friends with that joker, Alistair; the boy might be a clown but he had a good heart and probably helped steer Cullen away from some of the less obvious pitfalls of life in a Circle Commandery, especially since the more flirtatious apprentices seemed determined to discover if what lurked beneath his mantle was as impressive as the rest of him.  According to Irving _Making Cullen Blush_ was a popular, and apparently very easy, game among the girls.  Greagoir smiled to himself.  Cullen would have a challenging time as a young Knight around that lot but, if he lived up to the promise he was already showing, he would go very far indeed…

###

Alistair was alone in the dormitory they shared with four other novices, grinning broadly as Cullen entered

“So, had the talk?” Without waiting for Cullen’s reply he pulled a platter of bread, cheese and fruit out from under his bed “You missed lunch so I ‘borrowed’ this from the kitchens.”

Cullen shook his head with a grateful smile

“Thanks, Al; but Ser Greagoir says the Vigil goes easier on an empty stomach…” he paused and his smile faded “I just wish you were making it with me.  It doesn’t seem fair, I don’t think I could have got through training if it wasn’t for you…”

Alistair was six months older than him, and had been a novice since he was eight, by rights he should have made his Vigil well before now but Ser Greagoir had deferred it due to ‘lack of discipline’.  It wasn’t fair at all.  The boy from Redcliffe had watched over him since his first, homesick, night in the Tower; sneaking him extra rations, giving him the confidence to stand up to the bullies, cheering him up with jokes and pranks, and warning him to avoid those Knights who might ask him to be ‘their special friend’.  He owed a lot to Alistair, and knew in his heart that he would make a good Knight.  Alistair shrugged, taking a bite from the cheese and chewing thoughtfully.

“Doesn’t really bother me…” he admitted eventually “You wanted this, you always have.  I just got dumped here because I was someone’s bastard and it was too embarrassing to keep me around.  Maybe Greagoir’s right and I’m not Templar material…”

“But that means I’ll always be senior to you” Cullen objected “That doesn’t feel right after everything you’ve done for me”

“Then it’ll be your turn to watch my back…” Alistair laughed, taking another bite of the cheese “Honestly, Cull… I’m really happy for you.  You’ve worked hard for this and you deserve it…”

###

“…marked with the Sigil of the Order, the Sword of Mercy and Justice; be neither swift in dispensing one nor slow in withholding the other…”

Cullen’s eyes ached and watered from gazing on the Eternal Flame and every muscle in his body screamed for sleep but he remained alert and tense, heart pounding as Revered-Mother Gwladys traced the Flaming Sword on his brow with the Holy Chrism.  It might have been his imagination, warped by fasting and vigil, but her expression appeared one of pity.  As the Knights chanted verses from the Canticle of Transfigurations; Ser Helena, the Knight-Guardian of the Holy Philtre, ascended the steps of the Altar and opened the Tabernacle.  She withdrew a vessel covered in a pall of rich crimson and gold brocade which she placed in the hands of Ser Greagoir, now vested in the full panoply of a Knight-Commander, removing the covering to reveal a crystal and gold vessel; the contents glowing with a pale blue light which seemed to fill the whole Chantry.  Cullen could hardly breath, the thundering of the blood in his ears almost drowning out the Knight-Commander’s words…

“Receive the Philtre, the Power of our Order, in the name of the Maker, through the Grace and Blessing of His Holy Bride; accept, and know that you are a Knight of the Templar Order, pledged to the Service of the Maker until your final breath…”

The Knight Commander approached with a measured step.  Cullen felt the rim of the vessel against his lips, cold as ice, and the bitter taste of unripe apples on his tongue.  His mind exploded in glory…

**9:41 Dragon: Late in Umbralis (Firstfall) Skyhold**

“…with the Venatori falling back to…  _urgh_ …”

“Cull...?” Marcus looked up from his notes as the Commander fell silent.  Cullen leaned over his desk, eyes screwed shut, fingers pressed against his temples “...Another headache?”

Cullen’s nod was barely noticeable.  It had come on suddenly and without warning; a sharp, nauseating, pressure behind his eyes. It was the third one this week and the worst so far.  Marcus sighed and pulled the cushion out from underneath him, placing it on the floor between his feet

“Come over here and sit down!” he ordered “We need to do something about this...”

The Commander grunted something in reply, but could recognise the _‘No arguments!’_ voice and obediently sat down with his shoulders against the younger man’s knees.  Marcus spread his legs slightly so Cullen could lean back further

“Rest your head against me and relax.” Marcus instructed him “Comfortable?”

“As much as I can be, when it feels like my eyes are about to explode...” he grumbled. 

Marcus made no response but breathed lightly on his fingertips and gently began to massage the Commander’s temples and forehead, skilfully unknotting the tensions locked in the muscles

“Feeling better?”

“ _Mmmmnn_ , yes!” the nausea had gone and the pressure fading fast “Where did you learn this?”

“One of the Healers at Ostwick taught physical medicine.  He said this was a technique used by the Antivan Crows” Marcus’s fingers continued their adept manipulation, gradually moving up and across Cullen’s scalp “I’m not sure if that’s true but it seems to work...”

“It certainly does...” the Commander agreed as Marcus’s thumbs pressed lightly against the base of his skull “I should get you to do this more often.”

“These headaches are becoming more frequent...” Marcus kneaded the tendons at the back of Cullen’s neck; eliciting a long, contended, sigh “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine!” Cullen assured him “I think it’s just frustration...”

Marcus paused, frowning, Cullen was the kind of man who’d say ‘I'm fine!’ with half a bushel of arrows sticking in him

“Cull...” He began, cautiously, trying not to sound too disbelieving “You'd tell me if there was anything wrong, wouldn't you?”

“Honestly, I'm fine...” Cullen promised “Cassandra still monitors me and she doesn't seem to be worried.  I'm just finding this lack of activity hard to cope with.”

The winter weather might be inhibiting the Red Templars but it hindered the movement of the Inquisition just as much. The supply routes to Skyhold were clear, and the agents in the field kept intelligence flowing to Sister Nightingale, but troops were at a standstill. After tasting battle against the Wardens and their demon allies at Adamant, Cullen was having a hard time readjusting to logistics and reports; even the rigours of the training ground didn’t satisfy in the same way.  He wanted to be back out there, sword in hand and the Inquisitor at his side. He was a soldier, not an administrator – that was the truth he’d forgotten and which the Inquisition was helping him remember; being out there, facing the enemy, was one of the few things that banished the horrors and without it the cravings were getting stronger again.

Marcus smiled down at him, hands moving to unfasten the straps of the Commander’s breastplate.

“Well, if frustration is the problem, I could do something about that...”

Cullen took hold of Marcus’s wrists, moving his fingers away from the buckles and smiling back

“You, _My Lord,_ are insatiable, incorrigible, and have a meeting with Leliana very shortly ...”

Marcus bent down and kissed the top of Cullen’s head.  Thanks to his deft fingerwork, the neatly combed hair had resumed its natural curls; a pleasant side-effect in the young Mage’s opinion.

“That still gives you just enough time to sate and corrige me...” He cocked his head with a mischievous grin “Unless you don’t think you can cope with my relentless demands?”

Cullen stood up, laughing as he pulled Marcus to his feet and kissed him fiercely. With the headache gone, the inappropriateness of the suggestion excited him; as Marcus knew full well it would.  Cullen’s free hand was already tugging at his belt-buckle as he steered his lover toward the nearest available flat surface and bent him over

“Oh, I can cope” Cullen’s teeth lightly nipped the back of Marcus’s neck, making him shudder in anticipation. “I’m just not sure how much more punishment the desk can take...”

###

“There has been no word of Ser Hawke since he arrived at Weisshaupt; in fact, my agents report no word from Weisshaupt at all in the last few weeks”

Marcus looked up from the reports Leliana had given him to read over.  The main business of the Inquisition was still conducted at the Morning Council, but these private meetings scattered throughout the day allowed for more in-depth discussion and sometimes to pick up on those little curiosities that might, or might not, prove to be more important than they seemed.  Over the months, Marcus had learned to trust the Spymaster’s intuitions.

“That sounds… ominous.  The last thing we need is more Warden trouble”

He put the reports down and sat back, a messenger bird in a nearby cage cawed at him with suspicion and Marcus briefly wondered, for the umpteenth time, how the floor of the Rotunda remained free of bird-shit with Leliana’s evil-eyed ravens flapping about.  Perhaps she had them terrified into constipation...

“It might be due to poor weather and travel conditions in Anderfels…” Leliana sounded like she didn’t believe that for a second “or, more likely, there is infighting among the Wardens about Corypheus and the submission of the Orlesian Wardens to the Inquisition.  They are a secretive Order at the best of times; I have asked my agents to keep an eye out for anything suggestive of trouble…”

“I’m more concerned there’s been no sign of Hawke; he told me that once he’d briefed the Wardens he was going to move on, hunt slave-gangs with an old friend possibly…” Marcus scratched his chin, recalling the dull numbness in the man’s eyes when they parted at Kirkwall “It didn’t seem like he was intending to stay in one place for long.”

“That would be Fenris… I almost pity those slave gangs” She smiled; a small, cold twitch of her lips, then glanced across at Marcus “I would not have expected you to be so interested in his well-being, the two of you didn’t exactly get on…”

Marcus sighed and shrugged

“I just want to be able to let Varric know he’s all right.  I know it sounds stupid, with everything else we have to think about…”

Leliana walked over and sat beside him

“Marcus; you’ve told me often enough that every single life matters, that people are more than just tools to be used and discarded…”  she hesitated, letting the mask of the Spymaster drop for a moment “Wanting to give comfort to a friend isn’t stupid… if I hear anything I’ll let you know.”

“I appreciate that, thank you…” Marcus smiled “and I’ll trust your judgement on the Weisshaupt situation.  You have something of a sixth sense when it comes to the Grey Wardens.”

Leliana laughed

“I’ve spent a lot of time around them, during and after the Blight…” Maker! Was all that really only ten years ago? It felt like Ages had passed “They can be… _peculiar_ … but they do tend to grow on you after a while.”

“Blackwall and Ser Alistair are the only Grey Wardens I’ve ever known…” Marcus chuckled, although recalling Alistair brought the inevitable stab of sorrow “but I certainly see your point.”

“Blackwall, yes…” Leliana fell briefly silent.  There were… _oddities…_ about Blackwall; strange little inconsistencies which on their own meant nothing but, when taken as a whole, suggested the Warden was being more than usually evasive about his past.  He’d proven himself a valuable asset and ally, though, and it would be unproductive to voice half-formed suspicions about a man the Inquisitor held in high regard; especially as there was always the chance she was wrong, no good Spymaster took the myths of their omniscience seriously.  “He’s definitely… _peculiar_ ; but in a most agreeable way.”

“Josephine certainly seems to think so…” After Marcus and Cullen’s ‘friendship’ the second worst-kept secret of Skyhold was Warden Blackwall’s infatuation with the Lady Ambassador.  They were carrying on like protagonists from some third-rate Orlesian romance even Cassandra would be ashamed to read; Blackwall loitering around the Great Hall in the hope of catching a glimpse of Josephine going about her business, while the Ambassador reciprocated by ‘accidentally’ leaving a glove or scented handkerchief in the vicinity of the stables.

“That reminds me…” Leliana was glad to move away from the subject of the Wardens; there had been no response from any of the agents she’d sent to locate Solona and that was worrying her far more than any vague discrepancies about Blackwall “Josephine has received news from Halamshiral, Empress Celene has decreed the Grand Masquerade will be held at Wintersend; which gives us just over two months to prepare…”

“Dancing lessons then! Josephine will be in her element…” Marcus couldn’t keep a glum note out of his voice.  It made tactical sense, if the peace talks failed then both the Empress and the Grand Duke would be in a prime position to renew active hostilities in the Spring, but it meant weeks more stewing in this stalemate “No chance the assassin will strike before then?”

Leliana shook her head

“Not according to our best intelligence.  This will be the Empress’s first major public appearance since the war began.  Corypheus doesn’t just need her dead, he needs her death to be seen by as many people as possible for maximum advantage.  The Grand Masquerade is his best opportunity, and ours.”

Marcus felt a tightening in his stomach.  If they thwarted the plot against the Empress, this would be the third major defeat dealt out to their enemy and brought them another step closer to the inevitable confrontation with the would-be god.  Once the Empire was safe, they had Samson to deal with, and then…  As if in response to his thoughts, the Anchor sparked and crackled.  He winced at the spasm of pain shooting up his arm.

“Are you alright?” Leliana asked, anxiously.  Marcus nodded, gritting his teeth.

“Just… just thinking about how far we’ve got, and how near we are to the end.  It… It’s unnerving.”

She laid a comforting hand on the young man’s arm.  When they first met, he’d reminded her so much of Alistair - his charm, self-deprecating humour and quiet courage; but Alistair had never really grown up, always remained a boy out of his depth in an adult world.  Marcus was beginning to look and sound older than his years, forced into a position that would tax a man of far greater age and experience, and with the Anchor doing untold damage to him every time it was used.  It was cruel, and unfair, for this to be laid upon him; for him to be the only one who could carry out this task.  Deep in her heart Leliana feared victory might come at the cost of Marcus’s life and she could see that same fear in his eyes.

“It would be unnatural if you weren’t afraid…” she said gently “All of us are, we've just become very good at hiding it.”

Marcus nodded, putting his hand on Leliana’s and squeezing it fondly.  The Spymaster was intimidating at first, second, and third, glance; but, after many conversations, he’d discovered the gentle, compassionate, heart lurking beneath the many layers of coldness she’d grown for protection.  It felt encouraging that she was becoming less inhibited about expressing that long-hidden side of herself

“Pretending seems to be a popular game around here...” he paused for a moment and then laughed, shaking his head in wry amusement “Perhaps we should have a ‘dressing-up’ box in the Council Chamber and wear a different costume every meeting”

The sudden shift in Marcus's mood lifted a little of Leliana’s concern and she laughed with him

“Oh, I must suggest that to Josie; can you imagine, Cassandra as a pirate?”

Marcus laughed even harder

“Complete with eyepatch and a stuffed parrot on her shoulder? I'm going to have a hard time not imagining that now.”

###

“I’m not sure why I imagined there might be anything left.” Cullen looked around, trying to remember what had been where.  He pointed over to a few blackened, lichenous, blocks of stone protruding out of a drift “That was the Chantry...” 

Only a few snow-covered mounds remained of Honnleath.  Like many of Ferelden’s smaller towns and villages it had been wiped off the map during the Blight.  Mia had never written about what happened in her letters, or how the family managed to escape the slaughter which must have overtaken their friends and neighbours, perhaps it was too painful for her to recall.  All she’d ever been able to tell him was that at some point on the road their parents had sickened and died. 

It took three years for that letter to find him in Kirkwall; the only time he recalled crying in all the years he was there.

“Can you remember where your house was?” Marcus asked... 

…It had been Cullen’s suggestion that the two of them ride down to Redcliffe to see how the rebuilding work was progressing.  As a gesture of goodwill to Arl Teagan the Inquisition had offered materials and men to help repair damage done to the town during the fighting.  There was no real need for either of them make this trip, but Cullen clearly wanted to get out into the open for a while.  With winter bringing a lull to the war, Marcus had seen no good reason to refuse this and leapt at the chance to escape the confines of Skyhold as well.  Cassandra hadn’t been too happy at the idea of them travelling without an escort, although Marcus pointed out that a Knight-Captain and a Knight-Enchanter, Templar-trained and battle-hardened, would be more than a match for anything the Redcliffe Hills had to throw at them.  Bull, and couple of the others, had tentatively volunteered to accompany the men, but it was obvious to everyone with half a brain that Marcus and Cullen were seizing a rare opportunity to be alone with each other for a few days. 

Neither of them had realised the route from Skyhold to Redcliffe would take them so near Cullen’s old home.  Typically, he’d said that the detour would not be worth the effort, but Marcus could tell how desperately he wanted to return, even if it was only to see this…

“It was about a mile out of the village, that way…” Cullen gestured eastward “My parents rented land from Bann Feargall, but they had a few acres of their own as well.  I suppose that belongs to Mia now, if it were worth anything…”

“We can go there, if you want…” Marcus offered, taking a swig of brandy and passing the flask to Cullen, “it’s not far.”

Cullen hesitated a moment then shook his head

“The snow could be a lot deeper, and there’s not going to be anything more than this…” he indicated the uneven heaps of snow-covered rubble around them

“Cull… it was your home” Marcus put his hand on Cullen’s shoulder and looked into his eyes, seeing the need he could never admit in words “If it were mine, I would go back even if there was just a hole in the ground…”

###

…The stone foundation blocks were still there, but any woodwork that hadn’t burned or rotted was buried beneath the snow.  With a little imagination, it was possible to work out where the house had stood, with barn and outbuildings in a rough quadrangle.  Marcus sat on a tree-stump, a little way distant, minding the horses while Cullen walked slowly round the ruins of his childhood home.  As he came back, Marcus could see there was something in his hand; a piece of broken tea-cup with part of the handle still attached, a pattern of blue flowers stencilled on a dull white background.

“Dad bought these, a present for Mum after Rosalie was born…”  Cullen stared down at the broken cup as he showed it to Marcus.  Six china cups and saucers; the pedlar who sold them swore they were Antivan, from the Royal Porcelain Manufactory in Seleny.  They probably came from nowhere more exotic than Amaranthine or Denerim, produced in bulk to be hawked around farms and villages, like the ‘ivory’ Andraste statuettes or paste jewellery seen at any local market; petty luxuries to brighten the lives of the poor.  It seemed so pathetic now, but those cheap cups and saucers were Mum’s treasure. He remembered how she had them displayed proudly on the kitchen dresser, like an Arl’s golden goblets, brought down only when the Revered Mother or any other sufficiently distinguished visitor arrived; such as the Knight-Captain, when he came to discuss Cullen’s petition to join the Templars…

“This… this is… is all that’s le-left of them, Marc…” Cullen looked up at him, eyes filling with tears, and Marcus could tell what was coming.  He caught him under the arms, staggering slightly with the weight, as Cullen’s knees gave way and a choking cry of agony and loss escaped his lips.  The tears he’d shed in Kirkwall were nothing compared to the storm of grief now raging in his heart.  Words in a letter couldn’t convey the reality; everything he’d known as a child, his home, the places he’d played, the Chantry where he’d pestered the Templars to accept him as a novice, Mum and Dad… gone… wiped clean from the land as if they’d never been.  In another age or so, it might not even be remembered that a place called Honnleath ever existed

“I… I… d-don’t even know if… if… they h-had a fu-funeral…” he sobbed “M-Mia ne-never said…”

It was unlikely, Marcus thought with harsh honesty; although he said nothing as he continued to hold the grieving Commander.  He’d studied the records of the Fereldan Blight; most of the dead rotted where they fell, a lucky few got thrown onto bonfires with a couple of hurried prayers.  Darkspawn raiders swarmed across the land, the clergy either dead or refugees themselves, and the survival of the living took precedence over the rites of the dead. He stroked Cullen’s head and held him a little tighter

“If you like, we can ask Mother Giselle to have a memorial sung for them when we get back to Skyhold” Marcus offered “I… I would like to be able to pay my respects; and I’m sure Cassandra and some of the others would as well.  I know it’s not the same as a proper funeral but…”

Cullen straightened himself up, pulling off one of his gloves and wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand

“Thank you… That would mean a lot.” He heaved a deep sigh and took a last look around the place where he grew up “We should get back on the road, it’ll be dark in a couple of hours…”

###

The glowering suspicion of the farmer and his men turned to broad smiles of welcome the moment they heard the travellers were agents of the Inquisition.  For the freeholders and villagers of Redcliffe and the Hinterlands, the men and women of the Inquisition had brought peace and stability while Arl Teagan fumed and fretted in the safety of Denerim.  Fresh-baked bread, hot stew and strong ale were set in front of the two men, and the children of the household sternly warned not to pester them with questions.  In their stained travelling-gear, Marcus and Cullen looked no different from any other Inquisition soldiers patrolling the countryside and the Anchor remained firmly concealed beneath Marcus’s glove

“An arrow-wound…” he explained to the farmer’s wife “The healer told me to keep it on so the poultice stays in place.”

The old woman gave him a look full of sympathy then turned to glare at the farmhands

“See! These brave lads are out in all seasons keeping us safe from raiders and demons and such like, while you lazy lot can hardly get off your fat arses to chase a couple of mangy wolves away…” She ladled more stew into Marcus and Cullen’s bowls “Eat up, my boys; there’s plenty more where that came from…”

###

The mattress was one of those thick, feather-stuffed, ones you sank into and Marcus lay back with a contented sigh, equally well-stuffed with good food and ale.  Cullen sat on the end of the bed, looking at something in his hand.

“Are you going to be alright Cull?” Marcus raised himself up on his elbows “It’s been a pretty tough one for you today…”

Cullen nodded, still staring at whatever it was he held.

“Seeing what was left, it hurt… a lot, but…” he turned to face Marcus “If it wasn’t for what we’re doing, a lot more places would just be heaps of rubble under snow.  It’s easy to forget that when we’re stuck up in Skyhold, but we’re making a difference to these people, and that has to mean something…”

He took Marcus’s hand and pressed something into it; an old Fereldan silver shilling, the type called an ‘Andraste’ because of the image stamped on the reverse.  At some point a hole had been bored so it could be strung on a cord like a pendant, while the portrait of the Maker’s Bride was worn and slightly shiny as if from frequent rubbing

“Branson gave me that ‘for luck’ the day I left for Kinloch Hold.  It’s the only thing I took with me from home.”  He went silent for a moment, holding Marcus’s hand in both of his and gazing down at the coin “I… I want you to have it… please… for my sake.”

“Cull, I…” Marcus looked at the coin in his hand then back up at Cullen.  The silver was warm and felt almost alive to his imagination; everything a Templar possessed, whatever his rank, came from the Order and belonged to it.  This was the one thing Cullen had that was his own, the only thing left of his home and childhood, and Marcus could see clearly, in the warm amber depths of his eyes, how much this gift meant.  His fingers closed around it, tenderly, as though too rough a touch would crumble it into dust “I’ll keep this safe, for both of us… Thank you.”

Cullen leaned over and kissed him, then pulled off his boots and climbed into bed, pulling the heavy quilt up over the two of them.  He smiled a little; the farmer and his household probably had no idea the pair of them were lovers.  Two male companions sharing a bed, for warmth and economy, was so common even in Ferelden that it could pass without notice or comment.  He stroked Marcus’s face, fingers lingering along the line of his jaw

“You’ve seen where I come from, what I was; I’ve got no lands or wealth, no ancient name.  Everything I have is here and it belongs to you...”

Marcus nestled in closer, slipping his arm around Cullen’s waist

“You’ve given me more than I ever imagined possible” he murmured, drowsily “You’re my Lion, I couldn’t want for anything better.”

Cullen kissed him again, a gentle brush of his lips against Marcus’s

“Sleep well, my Lord, it’s a long day tomorrow”

 

 

 


	20. Shore Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoiler Alert***  
> This story is loosely inspired by the side-quest ‘Sutherland and Company Missing’ but contains no significant plot spoilers.  
> As most of the story is technically a flashback, for a change there is no opening flashback to this chapter…  
> Marcus and Cullen are in the doghouse on their return, but why?  
> Mark and Stan, two soldiers from Skyhold, are enjoying a bit of a break in Redcliffe when word comes of an Inquisition adventuring company in distress; while a post battle celebration leads to a surprise admission and a bit of a brawl…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***A Note on Thedosian Holidays***  
> Firstday – The first day of Verimensis (Wintermarch); the Thedosian New Year’s Day, celebrated with feasting, merriment and the visiting of family and friends.  
> ***Song Notes***  
> ‘The Drunken Templar’ is loosely adapted from a traditional folksong ‘The Drunken Scotsman’ and the full lyrics are given at the end.  
> The Templar Order would like me to point out that they wear sturdy, sensible, breeches under their mantles and rumours to the contrary are false. They also get really annoyed if you call it a skirt…  
> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Sexual references, Homo- and Hetero-eroticism, Strong language, Homophobic language, Violence  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:41 Dragon; Early in Cassus (Haring) Skyhold**

“Your behaviour doesn’t surprise me in the least, but _you..._!” Cassandra’s basilisk stare turned to Cullen “Commander, I’m shocked that you could allow the Inquisitor and yourself to end up in such a situation.”

“I was hardly going to let him fight them on his own!” Cullen retorted defensively, uncomfortably aware that his own conduct didn’t exactly stand up to scrutiny. “There were five of them…”

“He shouldn’t have been fighting them at all!” Cassandra threw up her hands in exasperation “Maker!  I’m just glad no-one realised who you were.  What were you thinking… if you were thinking at all?”

“Things just got out of hand….” Marcus sighed “Look, Cassandra, I know it was stupid and dangerous, but all this is my fault; I don’t want you blaming Cullen for any of it.  The responsibility lies solely with me.”

Cassandra could feel her anger relenting slightly, the concern beneath it rising in its place.  Marcus had been idiotic, and Cullen uncharacteristically irresponsible, but of all the leaders of the Inquisition they carried the heaviest burdens and she should have foreseen something like this.

“I am not unsympathetic, even the humblest soldier in our army can expect leave every so often while the two of you have served constantly since all this began.  You both should have been allowed time to yourselves long before now” Her shoulders sagged a little “But you could have been seriously injured, or even killed.  It was foolish to take such risks…”

“I know, and I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again… at least not until after we’ve defeated Corypheus” Marcus’s penitent expression turned impish “But admit it… you’re just a _little_ bit jealous you weren’t with us…”

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed

“No, I most _certainly_ am not!” she lied

**A few days earlier; The Gull and Lantern, Redcliffe**

_“…Now the Templar woke to nature's call and stumbled toward the trees_

_Behind a bush, he lifts his skirt and gawks at what he sees_

_And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes._

_O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize”_

A howl of cheers filled the barroom of the Gull and Lantern.  ‘The Drunken Templar’ was a perennial tavern favourite and ‘Mark’ delivered it with gusto and a fine strong voice.  ‘Stan’, his friend and fellow trooper, snorted with laughter as ‘Mark’ staggered back to their table amidst much applause and backslapping.  Marcus had come up with the idea as they came in sight of Redcliffe, inspired by the anonymous nights the two had spent at farmhouses along the way. It felt childish at first, but Cullen had come to see his point. They had enough information and bona fides to pass as regular soldiers, and none of the men at Redcliffe would ever have been near enough to know exactly what either the Inquisitor or the Commander looked like.  Most of them had probably never been closer to Skyhold than the encampment in the castle’s shadow.

‘Mark and Stan, two mates on patrol’ saw, and heard, far more than either the Lord Inquisitor or the Commander ever could. They’d got a pretty good picture of how things were on the ground at Redcliffe, while also having a good time and not dancing a jig around Teagan’s stewards and functionaries; although Cassandra would be having conniptions if they didn’t return soon.

Marcus collapsed back in his seat beside Cullen with a contented grunt. It was good to be ordinary for a while.  Even in the informality of the Heralds Rest there was always a sense of people being on ‘Good Behaviour’ whenever he went in; although Varric, Bull & co. did their best to make up for that. Here, on their second night in the Gull and Lantern, locals and Inquisition troops alike had warmed to the quietly formidable Stan and his mouthy, extrovert, friend Mark. Berta, the pretty dark-haired barmaid who’d been serving them all evening certainly had.

Two full mugs of ale appeared on the table

“Compliments of the house, boys!” she smiled “and if you need anything special later on, just let me know...”

With the subtlest wink she turned, and walked away with deliberate slowness.  Marcus’s gaze followed her speculatively. She was very pretty and he was definitely in an adventurous mood. Skyhold might not be the Circle, but his position and responsibilities there constrained him as much as any tower. This rare freedom felt more intoxicating than the ale, like those first times away from the Circle with Aidhan, when they could just be themselves.  He could see that Cullen was intent on the retreating barmaid as well and leaned over to him

“I think we’re well in there, Stan!” he murmured, with a faint smile “Feel like something ‘special’ this evening?”

Cullen looked at Marcus, a knot of apprehension – or was it excitement? - forming in his stomach as he realised what was being suggested

“But isn’t she...?” Marcus could tell the question forming on Cullen’s lips and shook his head

“If she was, there’s plenty in here who look like they have more money than the both of us put together” Marcus nodded in the direction of the crowded barroom, grinning, “But we are the two best looking and she’s clearly a girl of taste.  I dare say she’ll appreciate a thank you present in the morning, but it’s not the same thing... I’m game, if you are?”

Cullen mulled the thought over, eyes fixed on Berta’s swaying hips as she sauntered towards the bar.  It was over four years since he last lay with a woman. Lissa, his ‘occasional, and reputable’ source of relief in Kirkwall, left when things started getting really bad; presumably to seek fresh clients in a city not tearing itself apart.  To his surprise, he’d missed her, and felt a certain relief that she wasn’t there when the Chantry was destroyed; she’d been agreeable company and never taken umbrage at his clinical attitude towards their arrangement.  He was glad she didn’t have to experience the worst of it.

Truthfully, though, he hadn’t felt the need.  Lyrium had taken its place, then the Inquisition; and then Marcus had come into his life; but... thinking about it now made him ache with hungry desire, intensified by the idea of sharing the experience with Marc

“Alright” he nodded, breathlessly, “Let’s do it”

Marcus beckoned, laughing, to Berta as she crossed the floor with a tray of foaming mugs.  She came over to them, smiling in anticipation

“Ask the boy to fill the tub, will you? And bring up a couple of bottles of wine later” He lowered his voice a little “Three glasses”

Berta gave him a knowing smile

“I’ll make sure it’s the best...”

###

Cullen sat on the bed, drying himself off as Marcus tucked a towel around his waist and fastened a fresh bandage around his hand.  The Anchor was securely hidden by the time Berta knocked and entered. She placed the bottles and glasses down, closing the door behind her and turning to the two men with a welcoming smile which turned into a faint frown when she saw the scars on Marcus’s body

“You’re young to have so many.” Her voice was full of sympathy “What happened?”

“Bandits south of the King’s Highway about a year ago, back when there was all that trouble at Crestwood” Marcus explained, he could spin a tale good as any of Varric’s when he wanted “Wouldn’t give up the location of the merchant caravan I was escorting so they decided to try and _persuade_ me.  Thought I was done for...”

“Maker... That’s terrible!” Berta handed him a glass of wine, clearly enthralled by the account.  Marcus swallowed a mouthful and nodded grimly

“Then this crazy fucker comes leaping out of nowhere...” Marcus ruffled Cullen’s hair with his free hand “covered in mud and Maker-knows-what, swinging an axe and howling like a banshee...”

“Mark didn’t show up at the Rusty Horn, like he promised, so I doubled back to look...” Cullen butted in, impressed by his own inventiveness “Heard the noises and saw what was going on...”

“I’d be dead if it wasn’t for him.  We’ve been like brothers ever since”

“And a bit more than brothers, sometimes?” Berta ventured, seeing the undisguised affection in Cullen’s eyes as he looked up at Marcus

“Does that bother you?” he asked, still stroking Cullen’s head.  Berta shrugged

“You might be surprised, the number of big brawlers who are into each other. Most of them need a woman there so they can tell themselves it’s just ‘lads messing about’” She smiled “You two are different though.  You really care for each other, don’t you?”

“Yeah, couldn’t imagine not having this big idiot around...” Marcus smiled down at Cullen, then turned to Berta; an unexpected shyness taking hold of him “To tell you the truth, this is the first time either of us have been with anyone else since we got together...”

“Well! You really know how to make a girl feel special, that’s for sure!” Berta’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she pulled on the ribbon at the neck of her blouse.  Mark and Stan were the certainly the handsomest men she’d seen passing through in a while, and a game occurred to her “Why don’t the two of you get each other warmed up while I finish my wine? Then we can think of a few things all three of us can try...”

Marcus laughed and pushed Cullen back onto the bed, pulling the towel from around his waist

“You heard the lady...” he grinned “Let’s give her a good show”

###

It was still dark outside as Marcus felt Berta slip out from between them and he sat up, bleary-eyed

“It’s my turn to light the kitchen fire” she explained apologetically, pulling on her drawers “I’ll never hear the end of it if I’m late.”

“That’s a pity...” Marcus yawned, nudging Cullen awake “Stan and I get the horn something fierce after a night on the ale!”

“I can tell!” Berta laughed, rubbing the sizeable bulge in the bedclothes as she picked up her blouse “But I imagine the two of you can deal with that!”

“I’m sure we’ll manage!” Marcus chuckled, pulling her closer for a kiss from the pair of them. He pressed six Royals into her hand “A present from the both of us, get yourself something really pretty!”

“Mark, are you sure…?” Berta gasped, that was more money than she’d seen all month “This is a lot, I wasn’t expecting…”

Marcus placed a finger to her lips and stroked her cheek fondly

“I want you to be the best dressed girl in Redcliffe on Firstday, you deserve it…”

Berta, blushed, dropping her eyes

“If you’re ever passing through again, I… I wouldn’t be looking for anything in return.  It’s just been a tough year to get by…” she ran her hand along the scars on Marcus’s chest “But I suppose you already know that.”

Marcus nodded, taking her hand and kissing it

“To be honest, I don’t know when or even if we’ll be back.  We could be sent anywhere at a moment’s notice but, if we ever do come back, we’ll not forget you.”

She kissed them both again

“Take care of each other; and I’ll make sure you get a proper breakfast for the road…”

“She’s nice, I enjoyed that…” Cullen yawned and stretched as Marcus lay back, scratching his chin “I… wouldn’t want to do this regularly, but last night… it was good.”

“It was... I think we both needed something to cheer us up.”  He let out a long thoughtful breath “It’s not something I want to do often either; but I like being with a woman, and so do you… we have to be honest with each other about that…”

“Never without you, Marc… I want it to be something special that we share…” Cullen held out his hand “Promise?”

“Promise!” Marcus grasped his hand and shook it firmly; then glanced, grinning, at the still obvious tenting of the bedcovers “Now what are we going to do about this?”

Cullen leaned out of the bed and rummaged in his breeches, re-emerging with a copper piece

“Heads or tails?” He asked, deadpan, preparing to flip the coin

“Tails!” Marcus laughed “I win either way…”

###

Berta was true to her word about breakfast and Marcus was eagerly tucking in to his second helping of eggs and fried potatoes, washed down with mugs of hot sweet tea, when he felt a tugging on his sleeve.  At first, he thought it was a child then realised it was a Dwarf; a small one, and fairly new to the surface judging by the way he (she?) wore a fur trimmed cap so low it almost obscured her (his?) eyes

“Please... The lady said you were with the Inquisition” a frightened little voice squeaked; female, probably, Marcus guessed “I... I... have to get a message to Skyhold. It... It’s very important...”

“Skyhold’s a week’s ride from here.  If it’s that important, maybe we can help?” he asked, kindly.  Despite her comic appearance and voice the Dwarf was clearly distressed and in need of help

Rat looked anxiously at the two men who, even sitting, loomed over her.  They were dressed like Inquisition soldiers and the man speaking to her had friendly eyes, but this was so important and she didn’t know what to do

“I... I... I have to give this message to the Inquisitor. Sutherland said that...”

“Sutherland?” Marcus interrupted “About my age, black hair, goes around with an archer and an Elvhen Mage?”

“That’s right” Rat almost cried with relief.  If they knew Sutherland then perhaps she could trust them to help “He’s in trouble, a lot of trouble...”

The young herdsman from the southern Bannorn hardly registered on Marcus the first time he’d asked to help Inquisition troops deal with bandits on his home turf, but over the past few months he’d shown himself to be a lot more capable than appearances suggested.  His little adventuring company had been a joke at first, but people quickly stopped laughing when they saw the results. Despite his unabashed hero worship of the Inquisitor, Sutherland was a competent leader and his ‘crew’ had been entrusted with more than one sensitive mission. If he was in trouble it must be bad, and Marcus felt a strong sense of responsibility for the band of adventurers he sponsored.

“Tell me what you know...”

Rat clambered onto the chair Marcus pulled out for her and took the mug of tea he offered.  In between gulps of the sweet, strong, brew she told her story.  They’d gone after a group of bandits on the North Road, who’d turned out to be better armed and organised than anticipated. As far as she could tell the bandits had Sutherland, Voth and Shayd pinned down in a cave off the highway.  Sutherland had ordered her to hold back and go for help if needed.  The little Dwarf had no combat experience but she had sharp ears and a good sense of direction.

“So, I have to get to Skyhold and let the Inquisitor know; please... Sutherland said he would help!”

Cullen shook his head.  He knew the Sutherland lad, and that he was far more capable than he gave himself credit for, but the situation sounded dangerous.  They wouldn’t last long, cornered like that.

“We can get a scout at the crossroads camp.  If you can show us where you think they are we can be there well before night...”

“I... I... don’t know... Sutherland said...” Rat felt like she was going to cry again.  She’d never had to make a decision this important before

“You can trust us...” Marcus promised “We won’t let you or Sutherland down.”

###

It couldn’t be too much longer before the bandits made another assault.  Shayd had half a dozen arrows left and Voth was down to his last Lyrium potion, they had to make this count.  Sutherland looked at their meagre supplies and came to a decision.

“I’ll distract them…” he said, trying to keep his voice steady “Shayd, you and Voth have gotta make a break for it.  I can hold them long enough the pair of you to get away.”

“No!” Shayd shook her head, horrified at the idea “They’ll kill you, or worse… We’re not going to leave you…”

Voth nodded in agreement with her.  The Mage was almost exhausted but reckoned he had enough Mana to take a few of the bastards out with him.

Don’t cry, Sutherland mentally begged as he took her hand; he could hold it together as long as she didn’t cry.  Help wasn’t going to come, maybe he’d placed too much expectation on Rat; she was young, and easily frightened.  It was all his fault for getting them in this mess…

“We’re not going to make it through the night if we stay put, you know that.  At least this way…”

Shayd silenced him with a kiss

“We live together, or we die together; but I’m not leaving you so don’t try and make me…”

“Shayd, I…” His words were cut off by the sharp crackling of flames erupting further down the hill and men’s screams.  Hope surged upwards in his heart and he grabbed his sword…

...The bruiser’s hair and clothes were on fire as he raced towards Marcus, swinging a war axe and howling like a madman; ducking beneath the wild blow, he dropped to one knee and thrust upwards.  The great-sword penetrated just below the sternum, the blade re-emerging at his shoulder; Marcus twisted, using the dying bandit’s own momentum to roll him to one side and off his sword, finishing him with a slash to the throat. 

Turning fast at Cullen’s shout of warning, Marc slammed his hand against the breastplate of the man coming up behind him; the armour had protected him from the blast of the immolation glyph, but…

The burst of electricity sent the bandit staggering back; twitching and jerking like a puppet with tangled strings, stiffening and falling as an arrow took him through the throat.  Marcus looked up to see a slim woman standing in the cave mouth, nocking another arrow to her bow.  He let out three whistles; two short, one long.

“Inquisition, I knew it…!” Sutherland shouted, jumping over the improvised barricade in the cave mouth.  He could see them now, two soldiers and a scout; they’d taken the bandits by surprise and had them on the run.  He shouldn’t have doubted Rat for a moment…

Disoriented, and caught between the two groups, the bandits put up a good fight but didn’t have much of a chance.  Cullen pulled his sword free from the last one with a satisfied grunt; wiping the blade on the dead man’s clothes.

“Lads, thank you… thank you, I…” Sutherland stopped, eyes widening and jaw dropping as Marcus pulled down the scarf hiding the lower part of his face “I… Inquisitor…!  Your Worship…!  I… I… didn’t expect…”

“Oh, come on!  You don’t think I’d abandon my favourite crew?” Marcus enfolded the astounded fighter in a bear-hug “Besides, do you have any idea how much that armour cost?”

“You… you hear that?” Sutherland didn’t know whether to laugh or cry “We’re the Inquisitor’s favourites…”

“I heard, you great dummy!” Shayd laughed back at him, relief flooding through her “And we’re never going to stop hearing it either, if I know you…”

“Are any of you injured?” Cullen asked, she shook her head

“Tired, thirsty and hungry but otherwise fine; although we wouldn’t have been, if you hadn’t have got here.”

“Thank Rat, and Ritts…” Cullen nodded towards the scout; it had been a stroke of luck, running into her on the road.  She was one of the best scouts they had and more than willing to give up her day’s leave to help ‘Stan’ and ‘Mark’; plus, she knew how to keep a secret. “We wouldn’t have found you so quickly if it wasn’t for them.”

“You… you saved our lives” Sutherland stammered “I don’t know how I can ever thank you…”

Marcus laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You can start by buying the first round in the Gull!  Dinner’s on us!”

###

The unexpected return of Mark and Stan; with the companions rescued from the bandits camped on the North Road, brought a rousing cheer from the patrons of the Gull and the story got told repeatedly as the party tucked into a well-earned meal washed down with pint after pint of ale; Mark demonstrating with a chicken leg how he’d skewered the big one through the middle.

A group of Arl Teagan’s guards sat grumpily at a nearby table.  They were used to being the big-shots around Redcliffe and seethed in resentment at the popularity of the Inquisition troops; they didn’t look very happy at the attention the two soldiers were getting from Berta either…

“Just let me know if the two of you want to celebrate privately later; and I don’t have to be up to light the kitchen fires…” she whispered in Marcus’s ear while piling more roast potatoes onto his platter and covering them with gravy.  Marcus glanced at Cullen, who nodded slightly; Berta was good company and they both needed to _unwind_ , several times probably…

He winked in acknowledgement and Berta kissed the top of his head as she left to refill the gravy jug.  Marcus turned to Shayd

“Promise me you’ll keep an eye on this one” he gestured to Sutherland, who seemed determined to wolf down half a grilled chicken without drawing breath “I can’t be running after him all the time…”

Shayd laughed, draping her arm around the young adventurer who grinned back at her; scraps of chicken stuck between his teeth.

“Don’t you worry ‘Mark’! I’m not letting this adorable idiot out of my sight anytime soon...”

“I know how you feel...” Cullen looked up from the contemplation of his ale.  He’d been putting this off for far too long.  Being away from Skyhold and alone with Marcus, being someone other than ‘Commander’ or ‘Knight-Captain’, had given him a chance to think with a clarity that he’d once associated solely with the crystalline chill of Lyrium.  He’d seen the charred, rotted remains of what had once been his home, comprehending with bitter pain what it was he’d lost; but he’d found a new home in the brave, passionate, foolish, heart of the man beside him, a place he was always welcome and where all his sins were forgiven. 

He wasn’t going to let himself lose that and he was tired of treating it like a secret, hiding it away like something shameful. Taking Marcus by the chin he turned his face towards him and kissed him long and deep; Ritts and Shayd cheering while Sutherland gawped in disbelief.

“Told you!” Voth muttered with a grin as he took another swig of ale

“I don’t want to pretend anymore...” Cullen’s heart thundered at his audacity as their lips parted “Not about you... about us; I want them all know how much I love you”

Marcus stared at Cullen, delighted and astonished; he’d hoped Cullen would eventually be comfortable enough to openly admit their relationship, just hadn’t expected it in the middle of a crowded tavern in Redcliffe...

He grabbed the back of Cullen’s neck and returned the kiss with fierce, reckless, hunger.

“You and me against the world; you beautiful, crazy, man!” he laughed, holding Cullen’s face in his hands and kissing him again.

“Maker! I think I’m gonna cry...” Sutherland whispered to Shayd

“That’s it!” an angry, hoarse, voice shouted from nearby “I’ll put up with these Inquisition fuckers strutting about like they own the place, but I’m damned if I’ll drink in the same room as a couple of queers...”

“I’m sorry, friend...?” Marcus got to his feet with a dangerously cheerful smile “I think I must’ve heard you wrong there”

Cullen rose alongside him, arms folded across his chest.  The Commander knew he should be stopping this before it got out of hand but ‘Stan’ really wanted to hit someone, and hit them hard.

The other man, a beefy guardsman in Arl Teagan’s livery, stood as well, despite one of his friends trying to pull him back down.  Either less drunk, or with more common sense, he could see where this was heading and didn’t like the view.

“You heard me right; or are you deaf as well as queer, you cocksucking bastards?”

In the next thirty seconds, the guardsman learned two things; big men can sometimes move _really_ fast, and _never_ call a Marcher a bastard if you like having teeth...

###

Marcus groaned as the rattle of the Gaoler’s keys stabbed through his pounding head, certain the man was doing it deliberately

“Right lads, on your feet!” the Gaoler barked “Your captain’s here”

Captain? Marcus glanced nervously at Cullen as an Inquisition officer appeared in the cell doorway.  The normally taciturn Knight-Captain Rylen was having a hard job keeping a straight face

“So, what are the charges?” he asked, avoiding Marcus and Cullen’s eyes in the knowledge that he wouldn’t be able to stop laughing if he caught their gaze

“Drunk and disorderly, public brawling, assaulting members of the Arl’s guard...” The landlord of the Gull wasn’t pressing charges for his broken furniture.  The Gaoler sighed; the Arl’s men weren’t too popular around town but if the culprits weren’t punished it would cause more trouble than it was worth “That’s a ten Royal fine for the two of them, or a flogging and a morning in the stocks”

“They’ll probably wish for a flogging by the time Seeker Pentaghast’s finished with them” Rylen grunted as he handed over a leather purse then turned to the men “Wait for me outside and don’t get into any more trouble...”

“Look, Ser...” the Gaoler scratched at his neck “The lads were provoked, if it weren’t for the Arl’s men being involved I would have just sent them packing with a warning...”

Rylen’s chin trembled with the effort to keep his face and voice stern

“I’ll see that gets taken into consideration...”

**9:41 Dragon; Early in Cassus (Haring) Skyhold**

Rylen and his men were smart enough to keep their mouths shut.  Cassandra had ordered them out on Marcus and Cullen’s trail a couple of days after they left to ‘make sure they didn’t get into _too_ much trouble’.  Given the alternatives, Marcus was quietly grateful for that, and for Rylen keeping quiet about Sutherland’s involvement.  It would have been a black mark against the crew and that was the last thing he wanted.

His edited version of events, including the rescue of Sutherland, had gone down well with the others as they shared a few pints in the Herald; disappointment at not being there vanishing at his ‘revelation’ that Cullen and he were now together – unleashing the inevitable barrage of off-colour jokes from Bull and Sera, together with a drippingly sarcastic ‘Well; _that’s_ a shock…” from Dorian…

“So, is Cullen not joining us?” Bull thumped the last of the freshly re-filled tankards down on the table “I would have thought that now you and he…?”

Marcus shook his head, taking a swig of ale

“There’s some work he wants to finish off, you know what he’s like; and besides…” he set his tankard down and glared at Varric “… _some_ people think he’s a wet blanket!”

“Okay… okay… I’ll tell him I’m sorry” The Dwarf spread his hands apologetically “But the next time he starts talking about ‘the compression arc of a trebuchet’ or whatever it was, I can’t promise anything…”

Marcus chuckled quietly as he took another drink; Cullen’s ‘punishment’ for the Redcliffe incident was to go over the reports from the Hinterlands’ campaign and present a strategic overview to Cassandra by the end of the week.  As penalties went it was pretty light, in fact he seemed to be enjoying it thoroughly, at least Cullen’s ‘non-essential’ excursions from Skyhold wouldn’t need to be reviewed by Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine before they were permitted; if Varric ever found out the Inquisitor had been grounded, he’d have a field day.

“I’m just glad you don’t feel you have to pretend any more…” Blackwall patted Marcus on the shoulder “Cullen’s a good man, the two of you deserve each other.”

That meant a lot; Blackwall had always appeared uncomfortable with the idea of two men being together, although he’d never said anything untoward, and Marcus appreciated his good wishes

“This may sound strange but…” Marcus put his tankard down and stated at it, trying to comprehend the process himself “It’s like being someone else for a time gave us both the chance to think about who we really are, and what we wanted for ourselves. Does that make any sense?”

“I…” Blackwall hesitated, taking a long drink of ale “I’m not sure… but I think I understand.”

“You’ve been spending too much time around Cole” Bull grunted, signalling for more beers.

“Can I ask something…?” Sera grinned wickedly and Marcus groaned in dismayed good humour; she’d come up with a new one…

“You’re going to anyway…” he buried his face in his hands, awaiting the inevitable “So just jump straight in…”

Sera fought down the giggles; this was going to be good…

“When he crosses the finishing line does he shout, ‘ _For the Inquisition_ ’?”

**The Drunken Templar – full lyrics**

_Well a Templar mantle-clad left a bar one evening fair_

_And you could tell by how he walked he'd drunk more than his share_

_He fumbled round until he could no longer keep his feet_

_Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street_

_About that time two young and lovely girls just happened by_

_And one says to the other with a twinkle in her eye_

_See yon sleeping Templar so strong and handsome built?_

_I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their skirt_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath their skirt_

_They crept up on that sleeping Templar quiet as could be_

_Lifted up his mantle ‘bout an inch so they could see_

_And there behold, for them to view, beneath his Templar skirt_

_Was naught but what the Maker graced him with upon his birth_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_Was naught but the Maker graced him with upon his birth_

_They marvelled for a moment, then one said we must be gone_

_Let's leave a present for our friend, before we move along_

_As a gift, they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow_

_Around the bonnie sword, the Templar’s skirt did lift and show_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_Around the bonnie sword, the Templar’s skirt did lift and show_

_Now the Templar woke to nature's call and stumbled toward the trees_

_Behind a bush, he lifts his skirt and gawks at what he sees_

_And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes._

_O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize_

_Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh ring di diddly I oh_

_O lad I don't know where you been but I see you won first prize_


	21. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoiler Alert***  
> Mild spoilers for Before the Dawn (Cullen Advisor Quest)  
> An unexpected lead in the search for their enemy’s general should be a cause for optimism, but yet another name from his past compels Cullen to make an uncomfortable admission to Marcus; one which he fears may change how the Inquisitor feels about him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Strong language, drug addiction, strong emotions, dubious/non-con sexual references, self-harm  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:37 Dragon: Kirkwall City**

Ralegh Samson wasn’t the kind of man to spook easily. As a Templar, he’d seen his share of failed Harrowings, hunted down a few Apostates, even fought a couple of demons. After the Order shook him off like dogshite from its boot he’d done whatever it took to keep himself alive and supplied, selling his dick or his sword with equal ease. You couldn’t live like that and be squeamish but the situation he was in now made his skin crawl. Once the novelty of non-stop pure Lyrium wore off, the question of what this Erimond guy wanted kept nagging him and he didn’t like any of the answers. The Lyrium alone would cost a fortune in normal circumstances, to say nothing of the peril getting hold of it under Meredith’s stranglehold, but he just had to snap his fingers and one of the silent servants brought him a fresh vial. He suspected they were mutes, although he’d heard Erimond address some of them in Tevene and that was when he started to get scared.  Tevinter meant blood magic and all sorts of crazy shit.  Maybe they were fattening him up for some ritual that needed Templar blood to work...

Erimond, or this ‘Master’ he kept referring to, clearly wanted him for more than a bit of knifework or a simple smuggling job; even if they didn’t intend to string him up by his ankles and milk his veins. This was big time stuff, and Samson didn’t like the idea of that; he was strictly small time and it felt too much like being set up for a very long drop.  They might be treating him like royalty just now, but once a job was done it was easy to make a guy like him disappear.  Just another loose end floating face down in the harbour.

He wished he could find some way of getting a message to Serendipity; she’d know what to do, she always did.  It would have been easy for her to turn him away when he crawled to her door starving, half dead from infected wounds and Lyrium withdrawal, but she’d taken him in; found some apostate healer to purge the poison from his blood and a supplier to provide the cool blue medicine for his screaming mind. ‘You’re the only one who treated me like a real woman’ was the sole reason she gave. She’d looked after him and he’d protected her.  It wasn’t love, but it was the most people like them could hope for.

She’d be worried about him, maybe even looking for him, but a Tevinter magister in Kirkwall would be very good at covering his tracks…

Erimond droned on. The prick liked the sound of his own voice, just a pity it was the same shit Samson heard time and again from any number of wild eyed street corner lunatics; raving about the Chantry’s lies and corruption, at least that crazy healer down in Darktown was entertaining...

Maybe Erimond just got off on talking shite, wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’d run across, or perhaps whatever they had in store needed him to be bored to death first. The knife he’d smuggled off the breakfast table and hidden in his boot made him feel better.  It wasn’t much of a weapon but it was a blade.  If they wanted his blood they wouldn’t get it without one hell of a fight

“Was it the Maker’s mercy you felt when they branded your hands and tore the skin off your back with their whips? Did you sense the presence of Andraste when you slit a man’s throat or some obese merchant slobbered and pawed at you?” Erimond set his glass down and sat back “The Maker, Andraste, the Chant of Light, even the Old Gods – all a lie told by men afraid of an empty heaven.  You and your brothers are nothing but the slaves of that lie; slaves to be used, and cast away once their little blue potion has burned away your minds.  We offer you the chance of revenge, to tear the whole rotten edifice down…”

Samson shook his head with a derisive laugh

“Out with the old lie; in with the new? Mate, if it’s revenge you’re offering; just give me a few hours in a room with that cunt, Rutherford, and some sharp objects.”

Erimond smiled, pulling something wrapped in black velvet out of his tunic.  This would be the deciding moment. There weren’t many ex Templars out there and most were lunatics or burned out addicts; either too mindless to be of use, or so weak of spirit that the Red consumed them swiftly.  This man was different, possessing a brutal will to survive and hardened in a cold agnosticism that would serve the Master far better than any blind faith. He would never believe but once he tasted the power offered and the potential it unlocked he would be an unstoppable force.  The conflict between Mages and Templars in Kirkwall was coming to a head, before long it would burst out into violence and that would be give them the opportunity they needed.

“Such a small ambition, although I suspect it would be diverting to watch, but whether you believe in the truth of what I’m saying is irrelevant.  You don’t have to rely on the blind faith the Chantry demands, I can show you the power my Master wields; a power far greater than anything those wrinkled old hags suspect.”

He opened the velvet wrapping and placed a vial on the table in front of Samson.  The deep red liquid inside seemed to give off a subtle, hypnotic, vibration; pulsing like a heartbeat.  Samson licked his lips nervously.  He couldn’t tear his eyes off it; the stuff was… _singing_ … to him, a deep and distant choir promising the fulfilment of desires he’d scarcely dreamed of

“What…” his throat had gone dry and he gulped down a mouthful of wine “What is it?”

Whatever it was, he wanted it… _needed_ it… and it wanted him…

“It is the Truth that Lyrium pretends to; the means by which you and your brothers can be transformed into a force beyond your wildest imaginings, one which you will wield in the Master’s name.” Erimond pushed the vial towards him “Taste; and know that everything they told you is a children’s fable…”

Samson picked the vial up, closing his fingers around it.  He could feel it pulsing through the glass and the song became louder, clearer; drowning out fear and doubt, banishing everything except the certainty of wanting whatever this offered. Erimond stood with a friendly smile, belied by the cold satisfaction in his eyes, certain this man could command the power of the Red long enough to be of service.  If he survived this, it would be time to present him to the Master…

“…I will leave you alone; such an _intimate_ experience demands privacy.”

**9:41 Dragon, Late Cassus (Haring) Skyhold**

“Can you actually find the time to read all these books?” Varric’s eyes wandered over the two overcrowded bookcases in Cullen’s office. More books were stacked in piles on the floor and the chair, all of them well-thumbed with scraps of paper stuck here and there as placemarkers

“I don’t sleep much” Cullen muttered, scribbling a note at the foot of a report “and a book is a good companion in the small hours.”

When he first arrived at Kinloch Hold, Cullen could barely read and could just about scrawl his name.  Education was a luxury for families like theirs; Mia, as the eldest, had been taught her letters and numbers but what little schooling Cullen received was picked up from her, or from odd moments snatched from a good-hearted Sister at the Chantry.  Painfully aware of how far behind the other novices he was, some of them sons of noble families who’d had tutors since infancy, he spent every spare moment with either book or sword in hand; determined not to be found lacking in any of the accomplishments expected of a Templar.  His handwriting was still abysmal, especially compared to Cassandra’s precise penmanship or Marcus’s flowing script, and he often stumbled over the pronunciation of a word he’d only ever read but at least he could manage to follow all but the most abstruse conversations without feeling like a total bumpkin.

“I’m not going to argue with that...” Varric chuckled, noting the copy of ‘Hard in Hightown’ wedged hurriedly beneath a volume of Emperor Kordilius’s ‘Strategies’

“Do you have something for me?” Cullen sounded sharp, and meant to, it had been a bad night and even Marcus’s skilful fingers hadn’t been able to completely banish the headache still gnawing at the top of his skull.  If Varric wasn’t brought to business right away he would take root, crack open a bottle of wine without asking and begin rambling

“Nothing about the ‘private business’, but one of my Kirkwall contacts has come up with a piece of news that will interest you...” It was better not to mention Merrill’s name. Curly might have come a long way since his ‘Mages aren’t people like you and me’ days but he was still a Templar in his heart and anything to do with Blood Mages was guaranteed to trigger a bad reaction.

Cullen put down his pen and straightened up, his headache briefly forgotten.  The Dwarf might not have the network of agents Leliana enjoyed but he was a useful source of additional information, especially about things the commander might not want the spymaster to know about

“...Do you remember Samson’s ‘girlfriend’?”

“I heard he was living with a prostitute...” it had been further proof, if such was needed, of how deep Samson’s corruption went “I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to his... career, after his expulsion...”

_After I betrayed him and stood by while he was branded, flogged and thrown out to die..._

If Varric read anything in Cullen’s shifting expression he gave no sign and continued on

“Well she got a letter from him recently…” He held up a warning hand at Cullen’s exclamation of eager surprise “Nothing too exciting, standard lovey-dovey stuff, no secret codes or ‘by the way I’m helping a crazy Darkspawn Magister become a god and this is my forwarding address’; it’s the messenger I thought you might be really interested in…”

“Another Templar?” Cullen barked impatiently.  Varric loved to spin out his stories, making you beg for the juicy ending.  Varric shook his head

“A Tranquil…”  The Dwarf waited for this to sink in before delivering the coup-de-grace “Remember one called Maddox?”

###

“So, this Maddox is working for Samson now?  That is interesting…” Leliana stared down at the map, deep in thought “and you say he’s a skilled artificer?”

“It’s possible he may be the one maintaining Samson’s armour” Cullen excused himself past the spymaster and shifted a marker a fraction of an inch to his satisfaction “Varric’s source said he was buying some quite specific supplies.”

Kirkwall had always been a centre of the black market for all sorts of commodities, especially magical, with the current anarchy in the city it was almost the mainstay of its economy.

“Then his trail may lead us to wherever Samson has his base” Leliana was quietly impressed, perhaps she ought to have a chat with Varric about combining forces “The information we already have suggests this area here as a likely prospect.”

She gestured at a large territory along the Tevinter-Nevarran border

“That is desert…” Cassandra informed her “Blightlands from the First Blight mostly…”

“But with a lot of Tevinter ruins from the Old Imperium” Marcus looked up from the large book he’d been apparently engrossed in “What? I can read _and_ listen you know…”

He got up and joined the at the table, bringing the book with him

“Ossleman’s _Geographica Nevarrica_ , nice edition; Markham University sent it along with some of the other volumes retrieved from the Circle Library… Listen to this…” He placed in down on the table and began to read aloud

“… _A number of these remains are of religious or magical origin.  It would appear that, under the Old Imperium, this was an area of considerable ceremonial importance for reasons that are now obscure; possibly some local thinning of the Veil which made it easier for the Mages of that period to communicate with their false gods_ … followed by several paragraphs of religious polemic; a bit out of place in a geography, but that’s Ossleman for you… then this _…principal among these, and still largely intact when viewed from a distance, is a shrine purportedly dedicated to the false god Dumat; head of their pantheon…_ and a couple more paragraphs of polemic _…the remoteness of its location and the superstitious hostility of the peasants made further investigation impossible and I do not believe it unlikely that some of the more credulous inhabitants of this region still fear the power of…_ blah blah blah!”

“That account _is_ over three centuries old…” Cassandra reminded Marcus as he closed the book with a self-satisfied smirk

“True…” he conceded “But a building that’s survived over a thousand years and four Blights is unlikely to have crumbled to nothing in a mere three hundred years…”

“It is worth looking in to…” Leliana agreed “Corypheus has shown he has a sense for the theatrical and using an abandoned sanctuary of Dumat certainly fits with that…”

Cullen leaned over to Marcus as the two women immersed themselves in a logistical discussion

“Marc… might I…?”

“Yes, you can borrow it...” Marcus sighed “But I _will_ want it back.”

Books lent to the Commander had a habit of never making their way home to the point of origin.  Cullen’s eyebrows lifted in surprise

“Oh! Thank you… but, that’s not…” he dropped his voice even further “Can we talk, privately, after the meeting?”

Despite the sense of triumph at having a definite lead on Samson there was something a bit _off_ about Cullen, Marcus noted, he seemed anxious and fidgety; this worried him.  Cullen’s nightmares had been worse than usual recently, possibly signalling the start of a new withdrawal crisis.

“Of course,” he stroked Cullen’s cheek, feeling surprise at the way he flinched “I have to see Mother Giselle about a couple of things, but come up to my chambers in an hour or so…”

###

Cullen paused at the foot of the stairs; listening to the music drifting down from Marcus’s chamber.  He played all too rarely and this wasn’t a tune Cullen was familiar with; plaintive and haunting, filled with a sense of loss but touched with hope.  He leaned against the wall, letting the notes flow over and through him; trying to find some peace of soul in the deep, rich, sound of the Viol.  Eventually the last phrase faded into silence.

“What would you like me to play next?” Marcus called down with a smile on his face.  Even if he hadn’t heard the door, a man in half-plate can’t be stealthy no matter how hard he tries.  Despite his anxiety, Cullen found himself smiling as he came up into the room…

“Musical appreciation didn’t exactly feature in my training… Did you learn to play in the Circle?”

Marcus shook his head, laying aside the bow and randomly plucking notes with his fingers

“I started getting lessons before being sent to the Templars…” It was an integral part of a well-born child’s education, especially in Ostwick where the Antivan influence ran strong.  Being unable to play a musical instrument was as unthinkable as being unable to wield a sword “But I kept up my studies in the Commandery, and then in the Circle; it was deemed an ‘appropriate’ pastime. Would you like to hear something else?”

Cullen nodded, sitting down on the couch with his hands clasped in front of him, fighting the compelling urge to claw at his neck.  Marcus picked up the bow and adjusted the tuning pegs.  Whatever Cullen wanted to talk about clearly affected him deeply, it would be best to allow him space to broach the subject in his own time.

The tune was light, almost frivolous, chosen to combat the growing apprehension he felt as much as to set Cullen at his ease.  It had been one of Lydia’s favourites, she’d taught it to him one hot summer afternoon when ‘Geometric Structure and the Dynamics of Energy Barriers’ had been too exhausting a subject for both of them

“It’s based on an old Orlesian air... ‘Love’s Sweet Regret’...” He explained, as he began to play.  There seemed to be more sweetness than regret, Cullen thought, but that was Orlesians for you. He could tell it meant a lot to Marcus though.  Strange, he could easily imagine Marcus as a Templar Novice, like the ones he used to be in awe of at Kinloch Hold; high-born, full of the confidence engendered by their rank and ancestry – even though that _technically_ counted for naught in the Order – they made it look so effortless while he struggled every day to keep up. 

Some of them sneered down their noses at the lout from Honnleath and his bastard friend but he doubted Marcus would have done that; he was too kind, too intrinsically aware of the worth of others despite race or rank.  He wanted, almost needed, to see the best in people; he’d even managed to find a little compassion for Anders at the end.  That just made it worse; Cullen knew what he had to say would hurt, and hurt deeply even if Marcus denied it, but he couldn’t keep it hidden any longer.

Cullen realised the music had stopped a little while ago and Marcus sat watching him, quietly, the viol resting across his lap.  

“There’s something I-I need to tell you…” He clenched his hands to try and stop them trembling, taking a couple of deep breaths to steady his racing heartbeat “You r-recall I t-told you about how I shared qu-quarters with Samson when… when I f-first arrived at K-K-Kirkwall?”

Marcus laid aside the viol and got up, walking over to sit beside Cullen; alert to his stumbling words and aware of what that meant, the struggle between will and tongue to unlock some pain-filled secret, yet another demon that haunted the former Templar’s nights.  An uncomfortably obvious possibility arose in his mind

“Did you and he ever...?” Marcus didn’t want to finish that sentence

Cullen nodded, shame at the memory and guilt at keeping it from Marcus colouring his cheeks a deep crimson

“A few times... at his insistence…”

Traumatised, surrounded from strangers in a dark and hostile place; his friends either dead or mad and him all but accused of complicity in their suffering, uncertain if anyone he cared for had survived the chaos of the Blight… The young Templar had needed someone like Marc, an understanding friend who would comfort and encourage him; offering the solace of companionship without claiming more than he was able to offer.  Instead, he got…

_...the shifting of the mattress waking him… The heat of Samson’s chest pressing against his back, pinning him to the bed; knee nudging his legs apart, the hand snaking downwards – demanding, predatory, without any of Marcus’s tenderness... Biting down on the pillow to stifle his cry at the searing pain of that first thrust; the hoarse, snide voice in his ear as the older man pushed deeper ‘Relax, Cully-boy!  Sam knows what you need...  This’ll take your mind off the night terrors’_

“It wasn’t... I... I... I mean I let him.  He... He n-never f-f-forced...” the stammer was getting worse.  Cullen stopped, taking several deep breaths as Marcus waited for him to continue.  Cullen couldn’t look at him, afraid of the revulsion and rejection he’d surely see “I… I was alone, afraid; I needed something... _someone_... to hold on to, even if it meant...”

_Even if it meant letting Samson use me whenever he couldn’t get to the Rose_

He’d jumped to the darkest possible conclusion when he saw Samson and Maddox slipping off together, remembering all the friendly little exchanges with the Mages back at Kinloch Hold; the same ones that penned him and his friends in that place and laughed as the demons tortured them. He’d panicked, it was easy to imagine the same nightmares being unleashed in this grim fortress and Meredith more than ready to listen to his denunciations. Samson was already a marked man in her eyes, she was just looking for an excuse...

That it was just letters, soppy little love notes to and from a tradeswoman in the city, made no difference; the very innocence of the messages rendered them doubly suspicious in the Knight Commanders eyes.  What could he say, ‘I thought Samson was fucking Maddox as well as me so I got jealous and scared’? It wouldn’t save Maddox, or Samson, and might just taint him with the man’s corruption, earning him the same punishment. Perhaps making them share quarters had been a test, Meredith’s way of discovering whether she could rely on him

It won him his first promotion, _Knight-Lieutenant Cullen Rutherford_ , while the Mages and less favoured Templars learned to be extra cautious around the young Fereldan…

Cullen sat there; still unable to look at Marcus beside him, elbows on his knees and forehead resting on his hands.  All he could hear was the other man’s breath, deep and slow as he tried to come to terms with what he’d heard.  After a silence that felt like it lasted for hours, Cullen got to his feet.  It wasn’t fair on Marc to drag this out, he had to take responsibility for what happened next…

“I… I understand if this changes things between us, Inquisit…”

Marcus grabbed hold of his wrist

“Cull… whatever you’re going to say; please… please stop…” his voice was strained with the effort of controlling his conflicting emotions, as he fought down the scream building inside. The grip on Cullen’s wrist tightened “I... I need some time alone... to think about this...”

“Of course, my Lord, I... I understand…” Marcus silently released his grasp and Cullen walked slowly towards the stairs.  He always been afraid that someday, some part of his past would be too much even for Marcus’s forgiving heart. He’d almost expected it, believing this happiness to be more than he ever deserved. He paused at the head of the stairs, unsure if he would be welcome to ascend them ever again

“You will always have my loyalty, and my love...”  

Marcus got to his feet as he heard the door closing, pacing the floor with increasing agitation. Anger boiled in him without any clear target. Was it Samson who’d earned his fury, or Cullen? Cullen might not think Samson had raped him, but he’d had taken advantage of Cullen’s vulnerability for his own selfish needs and driven him further down the path of paranoid isolation that made him easy prey for Meredith. It was Maddox’s fate that made him sick with rage, though, and he couldn’t deny Cullen’s culpability in that even though he could understand the fear behind the denunciation...

...or was the anger at himself? Had Anders been right and sad amber eyes was all it took for a man’s actions to be excused? Had he been so desperate to fill the aching void left by Aidhan’s death that he’d clung onto Cullen despite everything he’d done? Had he used Cullen like Samson did, only less blatantly...?

The scream that had been building up came roaring out of his mouth and Marcus’s fist slammed against the wall again and again, until the stone was stained red...

###

“I hope the masonry learned its lesson?” Enchanter Ellendra smiled thinly at Marcus as she examined the damage to his hand “There are a couple of fractures I can do something about. Salve and a bandage will suffice for the abrasions.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be giving me any more trouble” he stared down at his raw, bloody, knuckles as Ellendra selected what she needed from her medicine chest, feeling incredibly foolish and embarrassed

“It can be difficult, loving a Templar, can’t it?” she placed the bottles and bandages on the table.  Taking Marcus’s hand, she began to feel for the location of the fractures “Even with the most sympathetic, there will be times their obligations require them to do things a Mage might find hard to accept”

“Was that the case with you and Matrin?” Marcus winced as she found the damaged bones. It was rare for either of them to touch on personal matters, although Marcus had found himself turning frequently to Ellendra as both magical advisor and occasional mentor since she joined the Inquisition back at Redcliffe Crossroads.  Their previous conversations had stuck largely to the professional and technical but she was an insightful, experienced, woman and it was plain her diagnosis extended deeper than a fit of temper and a convenient wall…

“Of course! He was true to his vows, hunting Apostates, Blood Mages and abominations as any Templar must.  I cannot deny there were times his actions gave me cause to question and I imagine you must face similar challenges, given the Commander’s personal history…” She paused and took a breath “Now be quiet, I need to concentrate…”

She closed her eyes and Marcus felt a slight numbness penetrating his injured hand; tasting the Mana as it crystallised in the air about him.  He’d tried to explain it to Cullen and Cassandra once; like the feel of sea air on your tongue.  It appeared to be something only Mages were aware of, one of the surest signs of magic being worked nearby. 

“There!  You’ll have a slight ‘pins and needles’ sensation for a day or so as the bones knit, but it shouldn’t be too bothersome” She let go of Marcus’s hand and took the bottle of salve “Hold out your hand and bend your fingers slightly while I put this on…”

Marcus hissed a little at the sting of the ointment.  Why was stuff that was meant to heal always so painful? Perhaps it was some form of subtle punishment for being careless enough to get hurt.

“How did you deal with it?” he asked cautiously “There must have been times when you wondered if it was possible to continue?”

Ellendra smiled again, but with a touch of sadness, thinking of the hazel-eyed Templar; captivating and infuriating in equal measure. If he hadn’t been so determined to recover her phylactery, to protect her from ever being hunted down by their enemies, he might still be with her today…

She began fastening the bandage around Marcus’s hand

“I would think about what my life would be like without him and that always gave me my answer.  Love isn’t easy, perhaps it isn’t meant to be; if it were, we wouldn’t value it so much...”

“I just wonder...” Marcus hesitated, afraid that voicing his fear would make it true “I’m afraid that I’m using Cullen as a replacement for Aidhan...  That feels... cruel… unfair on both of us.”

She finished pinning the bandage in place and stepped back, arms folded and head cocked to one side, looking at Marcus carefully and remembering her own youthful passions and uncertainties

“Do you think you are?”

Marcus shook his head; Aidhan hadn’t lived long enough for the fire and excitement of their love to burn down into something steady and mature, no great crisis had forced them to question their feelings for each other; perhaps life in the Ostwick Circle had been a little too easy and sedate for that to have happened.  With Cullen it was different, like they were exploring a dangerous territory with unknown perils around every turn; ordeals that couldn’t be shrugged off with a laugh and a friendly tussle…

“No, but that doesn’t stop me worrying about it...”

Ellendra placed a gentle hand on Marcus’s arm; it was a rare display of physical affection from her and the smile he gave in return showed his deep appreciation.

“If it’s any help, I don’t think you are either…  I’ve sometimes wondered if I could ever fall in love again, but I’m too old for all that; you’re still young and the Maker has blessed you with another chance.  Don’t let your fear, or his, waste that chance”

###

Cullen was quick to answer the door, like he’d been waiting for the knock; clad only in shirt and breeches, his face flushed as if he’d been exercising…

“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”  The words felt stupidly formal in Marcus’s mouth, like calling unannounced on a new neighbour.  Cullen shook his head, open the door wider

“No… no, come in, please…” He stepped to one side and Marcus could see the iron weights sitting on the floor “I… I was just working off a bit of tension…”

Marcus stepped inside and crossed to the desk, placing the _Geographica_ down on top of the papers lying there

“I’ve put markers in a couple of the chapters that might be of special interest.  I’m in no hurry to get it back…”

“Thank you… I… I’ll take good care of it” Cullen stood by the still-open door, shifting his weight from foot to foot; uncertain what to say, or even if Marcus would be staying.  As the awkward silence dragged on, Marcus walked back to the door and closed it gently.

“Let’s go upstairs and talk…” he said quietly “I can’t be bothered trying to clear a place to sit down here.”

Upstairs, Cullen remained standing while Marcus sat on the bed.  He wanted to join him, desperately needed to hold him close and beg forgiveness, but couldn’t be sure if that would be welcome.  He’d never seen Marcus look so haunted before, not even after Redcliffe Castle, or Adamant…

“Have you ever read ‘Songs of the Hunters’ by Brother Faustian?” Marcus asked suddenly.  Cullen frowned, uncertain of the relevance of the question

“No, I’ve never heard of it…”

“It’s a collection of Avvar songs and poems.  Faustian was a Chanter from Hercinia; he went to the Frostback Basin as a missionary thinking that just hearing the Chant of Light would be sufficient to convert the tribes.  They probably thought he was mad and it would be bad luck to kill him, but for each Canticle of the Chant he sang they would sing him one of their songs in return; a way of saying ‘thank you’ I suppose…  He never made a single convert, but he transcribed every single song he heard together with the musical notation; it’s still the most authentic compilation of Avvar lore we have…”

“I… I think I would really like to read those” Cullen was genuinely fascinated, despite still being puzzled about why Marcus was telling him all this.  He usually liked the way the Mage’s mind made these curious leaps but just now it was painfully frustrating, a pointless diversion from what hung between them, there had to be some way he could try to say how much he wanted to know if there was still a chance “Or… or perhaps, some… some evening you could… could read them to me?”

Marcus moved along the bed slightly, gesturing for Cullen to sit down as he continued talking, those few steps seemed to take hours…

“I’ve been fascinated by the Avvar since I was a boy, and get incredibly frustrated about how little we really know about them. I used to fantasise with Aidhan about getting permission for us to go on an expedition to the Frostback Basin ‘for the advancement of knowledge’. It was our stupid, boyish, dream, adventuring in the wilds, but we promised each other that one day we would make it real.  Maybe we might have been able to do it, eventually, if… if it hadn’t been for the Rebellion...”

If it wasn’t for the Rebellion where would any of them be?  The disaster at Kirkwall defined all their lives, setting in motion the chain of events that led them to this place; bringing grief, loss and hope in equal measure.  Aidhan’s death had left him empty, torn away every future he could imagine.  The Grand Cleric’s invitation to join the delegation to the Conclave gave him the chance to at least do something that might make a difference but, after that…?

“I wasn’t going to return to Ostwick after the Conclave, no matter the outcome; I was going to take a horse and ride south, keep riding until I found the Avvar. I didn’t care if they took my head as a trophy or if I ended up a crazy warrior-mage in leather and war-paint, at least... at least I would have kept that promise...  There was nothing to hold me here, nothing that made me want to keep going, even after the Breach in the sky. The world didn’t matter to me anymore, I was just going to do what had to be done and then vanish, until we became friends...”

Only Cassandra, and possibly Varric, had really sensed the emptiness behind the humour and the mischief; the almost manic response of a young man cursed with a purpose he didn’t want; by an ingrained sense of duty that prevented him from running away into the mountains until the wilderness claimed him.  Looking back, he was thankful Cullen hadn’t been able to offer the ‘company’ he’d first been looking for; friendship with the quiet, broken, ex-Templar had brought him more than any quick fuck in an army tent ever offered, and when that friendship turned into love…?

What _would_ his life be like without Cullen? He’d pondered that all afternoon, sitting in the Chantry garden staring at the snow-covered beds, and the same answer came back to him time and again.  He would do what was demanded of him; face down Corypheus and afterwards, if the final battle didn’t claim him, step off the highest battlement of Skyhold into the waiting wind.

Kirkwall may have defined everything else, but he’d made Cullen a promise at West Hill and he wasn’t going to break that...

Cullen’s heart skipped a beat as Marcus reached across and took his hand; was this where he said it would be better if they ended this while they could still stay friends?  Would that feel better or worse than outright rejection?

“I promised you I wasn’t going to let what happened in your past get between us...”

Cullen’s grip tightened a little, his throat dry, but he was able to find the words he needed; the ones that would give Marcus the chance to withdraw.

“I can’t hold you to that promise. There are things I’ve done... I can’t, won’t, ask you to blindly forgive, even if I thought I deserved it.”

Every second of silence that followed was torment, and when Marcus spoke the words were halting, hesitant, as if each one had to be dragged from his mouth

“J-just tell me one thing… please… be honest with me... Did… did you... did you ever take…   take advantage of anyone, the way some of the others did?”

A cold shock of revulsion surged through Cullen at the thought, but he could feel no offence at the question; with everything that happened in the Gallows it was almost surprising he hadn’t asked this before. He knelt before Marcus, looking into his eyes and taking both his hands with the profound solemnity of a man making his last confession…

“I swear to you, My Lord, I have never taken man or woman against their will; nor have I laid unclean hands upon a child. My soul is tainted with many sins, but that is not one of them. I promise you this by everything I hold sacred.”

Marcus leaned forward with a long sigh, resting his head against Cullen’s

“Your soul isn’t as tainted as you think; I may have the wrong bits to be a priest but even I can see that. I’m sorry I had to ask but you know that’s the one thing I could never forgive... Everything else? I can’t pretend that will be easy but we can deal with that as it happens, if you’re willing...?”

Cullen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; he’d hoped, prayed, that the Maker hadn’t sent him this love only to snatch it away again; that Marcus would find it possible to keep seeing the man he was striving to be, to love that man and have mercy on him despite the crimes for which he was atoning.  His faith had faltered, but the Maker hadn’t failed him… and neither had his Lord…

“I can try, my Lord, but you’re right; it isn’t going to be easy… there will be times…”

Marcus shushed him, and lay back on the bed; Cullen, with a heartfelt, grateful, smile rose from his knees and lay down beside him.  Marcus drew him close…

“Love isn’t meant to be, or at least that’s what I’m told on good authority, but both of us have been given a second chance and not many people get that...”

They held each other in silence for a long time, Cullen’s head resting on Marcus’s chest.  Through the gap in the Mages tunic he could see his lucky coin, resting next to Aidhan’s Andraste on the same chain.

“The only Avvar you’ve met so far have either tried to kill you, or thrown goats at Skyhold.” He reminded Marcus, the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth

Marcus laughed softly, running his fingers through Cullen’s hair

“That only makes me more determined, I’m still convinced Movren’s clan are the Avvar equivalent of the village idiot. Perhaps one day, when all this is over, we could ride south together...?”

Cullen thought about that for a long time.  Most southern Fereldan wouldn’t share Marcus’s enthusiasm for the Avvar of the Frostback Basin, centuries of cattle raiding saw to that, but he could understand something of the fascination the warrior tribes of the far south might hold.  They lived the way their ancestors had, long before the Tevinter Imperium, or the First Blight or any of the nations that arose after.  The people from whom Andraste came must have been similar…

“Sing me the songs Brother Faustian collected and I’ll travel with you to the edge of the World.”

Lying here, resting against Marcus, he could feel the tension and anxiety dissolving; another respite in the struggle that had become so much a part of his daily life that it’s absence felt almost unnerving.  Suddenly he chuckled, kissing Marcus on the throat “You do realise I’m going to spend the rest of the evening imagining you in nothing but leather and war-paint, don’t you?


	22. Should Auld Aquaintance Be Forgot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a year is a time for remembrance, and the year 9:41 of the Dragon Age is burdened with many dark memories. Having admitted the truth to Marcus, Cullen is finally able to accept full responsibility for his actions in Kirkwall; while Cassandra reflects on where the true blame lies and on what she has lost.  
> Marcus regrets his inability to help Cullen truly banish his demons, but rescues him from the lesser perils of a New Year’s party to share a quiet moment of peace together.  
> The full story of Cassandra and Regalyan D’Marcall can be found in the Anime ‘Dragon Age – Dawn of the Seeker’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> References to intense drug withdrawal (cold turkey) Mild Homo-eroticism  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:40 Dragon: Late Cassus (Haring) Port of West Hill, north coast of Ferelden**

Cassandra had known what to expect; she was familiar with the effects of acute Lyrium withdrawal, having used it often enough as a punishment or form of interrogation.  It had taken the Knight-Captain some effort to convince her to agree but, eventually, she had to concede his point that he could not effectively serve the Inquisition if still bound to the Chantry by his addiction.  She could see what Leliana meant about his stubbornness; Cullen was insistent that if he couldn’t do this then he wasn’t the man Cassandra wanted for the task.  He didn’t seem to care that failure meant death or insanity.

She’d taken him to a remote cloister, west of Montsimmard, where the Revered Mother was a trusted friend.  After making his confession he was locked in a cell, food and water passed through a hatch every day, and left to face his ordeal.  Cassandra sat outside that door every day and night for almost two weeks, taking only short moments of rest, as he howled and screamed like a trapped beast; either pleading pitifully for ‘just one dose’ or demanding it with deranged, obscene threats.  Even the Revered Mother begged her to relent and allow him the relief he craved.  She had to be pitiless, there was no other way, this was Cullen’s choice and she could not deny him the chance for freedom; no matter what the cost.  He had survived weeks of torture at the hands of Uldred and his Abominations, and Cassandra knew in her heart he had the will to survive this.

What she had not expected were the chronic symptoms; the headaches, nausea and muscle-cramps persisting long after the initial crisis passed. This, she feared, might be what eventually broke him…

“I’m fine…” Cullen insisted, rinsing out his mouth with cold tea, the first solid food he’d eaten in days had lasted less than a quarter hour before surging back up “It’s just bad food and no rest. All I need is a night’s sleep in a bed that isn’t moving.”

A winter voyage across the Waking Sea wasn’t conducive to a settled stomach, Cassandra admitted to herself, and the stew of salted meat and withered-looking vegetables far from appetising.  Every decent tavern in West Hill was filled to capacity with travellers on their way to the Conclave and they had been lucky to find space in this decrepit hostelry, which did nothing for any of their tempers. 

“How is our ‘travelling companion’?” he asked, keen to take the subject away from his spasming innards.

Cassandra gave a disgusted grunt; she hadn’t expected Varric to be overly enthusiastic about ‘accompanying’ them to the Conclave but he seemed determined to make an already difficult journey unbearable

“The food is bad, the beds have fleas, I am a monster and you are a surly thug… the same song he’s been singing since we left Kirkwall!”

“The beds have fleas?” Cullen grimaced, glancing across as the greyish mattress.  Sleeping on the floor suddenly felt like the sensible option.

“Probably, although I doubt it would make today any worse than it already is” she got to her feet “I suggest you make the most of it though, we will be spending the next few nights on the road.  I imagine Master Tethras will have more than a few things to say about that!”

In the closet sized room for which the tavern-keeper charged her four Royals, Cassandra lit a candle and breathed a quiet prayer to Andraste.  It would be Firstnight in two days, a New Year and a slim hope for peace if the Conclave went the way Most-Holy hoped.  If it failed, the prospects for all of them were grim.  She opened her saddlebag and took out the letter that had been waiting for her at the dock, apprehension clutching at her heart as she broke the seal

_Belov_ _éd Cassandra_

_I do not have the words to express my relief that, out of all the Seekers, you have remained sane and loyal to Justinia.  I should not have expected anything else but, in these insane times, all expectations appear confounded.  It encourages me that you have remained true to the principles we share and that gives me reason to hope._

_I am well and have managed to safely avoid the worst of the chaos, although circumstances have demanded that I remain on the move like the most feckless Apostate.  I hear that Mme du Fer is attempting to unite the loyalists behind her banner, holding out the promise of Imperial protection as bait but, like you, I prefer to put my faith in Most-Holy.  At least we can be reasonably confident of her agenda._

_It is too long since we have spoken, my love - slaves to our duty that we are: but I hope the distance that has grown between us will not prove uncrossable. I still carry the volume of poetry you gave me at out last parting; even with all the business of the Conclave, I pray we can find the time to share a verse or two as was our custom._

_Ever yours_

_Regalyan_

**9:41 Dragon 29 th/30th Cassus (Haring) Skyhold**

“So, is it done?” Cassandra poured out the tea; the warm, rich, aroma filling the small room.  Cullen was drinking less wine than usual, this was a relief; she’d feared the risk of him replacing one addiction with another “You’ve talked to him…?”

Cullen nodded, taking the steaming cup and letting the warmth soak into his hands; it was a cold night and even with the fires piled high he couldn’t shake the chill in his bones. 

“A very long talk; but I had to be honest with Marcus… and myself...”

Cassandra let out a deep sigh; Cullen’s decision to tell Marcus the full story of Samson, Maddox and his actions at the Gallows had worried her even as she understood why he had to do it.

“That... that could not have been easy, for either of you.”

“It wasn’t, but I can’t keep dodging the blame...” Cullen took a sip of tea.  He’d told himself for so long that he hadn’t known, that Meredith kept things from him; concealed the full truth of her insanity.  That might have been true in the beginning but, once he’d risen to become her second in command, he’d known everything, even if his conscious mind denied it.  Hiding behind the Knight-Commander’s name might have been a way to protect himself from the harsh reality of what he’d become but it was time to step into the light and fully acknowledge his responsibility.    

“…Meredith never forced me to do anything, she never hid anything from me once I was her Knight-Captain; I obeyed her gladly because it was my duty as a Templar and because I believed she was right, there were times I thought her not strict enough.  It was hard for Marcus to hear...”

The two of them had continued talking long into the night; there had been tears, shouting, arguments but Marcus deserved the truth, and Cullen needed to tell it.  Meredith had been more than just his commanding officer; she was his ideal, the standard by which he judged himself, serving her had given him back a sense of worth and turning on her was the hardest thing he’d ever done.  Perhaps he’d even loved her; the way you might love a strict but ultimately caring mother.  Despite her paranoia she’d not been entirely wrong, Kirkwall had more than its share of Maleficara, but by the end she could no longer determine the guilty from the innocent and condemned both to the same fate…

“…I cannot blame her for my actions, I should have spoken up when she was still capable of seeing reason and I didn’t.  She…  she was once a fine commander and I will not dishonour that memory by laying my offences at her door.  Marcus understands; he knows the duty a Templar owes his Knight-Commander, and the cost of mutiny…”

He remembered the look in Meredith’s eyes when he ordered her to stand down; shock turning to pain and then cold, remorseless, fury as she saw her faithful hound turn traitor and her collapsing mind judged him as her enemy, just another pawn of the Blood Mages. Even at that point he’d almost faltered and begged her forgiveness...

“But you and he are still together?” there was a brittle edge of anxiety that Cassandra couldn’t suppress.  This wasn’t one of her romantic novels she could put to one side and forget, these were... she had to admit it... her two dearest friends…

“We are...” Cullen assured her, hesitating before he continued “There is… is one sin I never committed, the one that he would be unable to forgive; the one that would banish me from his presence forever…”

“I understand what you mean…” Cassandra nodded quietly, with a sense of relief “It is not one I would have been able to forgive in you either…”

It was the abuse of Tranquility that troubled and angered Marcus the most and Cassandra could appreciate that. Tranquility was intended as a last resort; either for apprentices who felt, or were deemed unable, to undergo the rigours of the Harrowing, or in response to the serious misuse of magic. Officially it was only the First Enchanter of a Tower who could request an apprentice be made tranquil without their consent, or that a Harrowed Mage be made tranquil as punishment; in the latter instance the request had to be countersigned by two Senior Enchanters, the Knight Commander’s signature merely signalling his approval for the Rite to be applied.

In reality the imbalance of power between Mages and Templars meant some Knight Commanders, like Meredith, imposed the Rite as they saw fit without reference to the First Enchanter; while a strong First Enchanter could easily use it to suppress dissent or inconvenient opinions within the ranks of the Magi.  Neither side was innocent of its abuse and even for otherwise conservative Mages it was a source of grave concern.

The Seekers should have seen this, and more, instead they had failed both Templars and Mages.  Lord Seeker Lambert’s actions showed he was more concerned with suppressing the truths he uncovered, using the Templars as his weapon. Cassandra felt a great surge of hope when Lord Lucius was chosen as his successor, a cautious and moderate man, sure to see the wisdom of reform; but the Envy Demon had already taken his place and served their enemy’s agenda.  Justinia’s great Conclave was doomed from the start, Mages, Clerics and Templars alike had ridden blindly into a massacre.

Cullen might be willing to accept the blame for what happened to Maddox and the others unjustly made Tranquil under Meredith’s regime in the Gallows but the real responsibility lay with the Seekers of Truth.  If they had acted properly, then the young Templar would never have been sent to another Circle, instead assigned to some quiet rural cloister until mind and body healed, while Meredith’s instability would have been noted and corrective action taken.  They chose to serve a lie instead, to maintain a status quo already on the edge of collapse, bringing death and misery to untold thousands.

Cassandra recalled an afternoon in Haven, recovering from a broken leg, when she had first tentatively hinted to Marcus about Cullen’s past and the burdens he bore

“I once said to Marcus that it showed great trust for you to offer friendship to a Mage, I was trying to warn him about expecting more and I think perhaps I misjudged him.  I should also have considered that it took great understanding for a Mage to be willing to accept such an offer.  That you are both prepared to fight so much for what you have speaks highly of you…”

As if chasing Cassandra’s thought, Cullen also found himself remembering those early days as the fledgling Inquisition struggled to establish itself.  He doubted if he could have stayed sane if it hadn’t been for Marcus; turning up with a chessboard in one hand and a bottle of wine in another, to tell him it was time to finish for the day… teasing him about his obsession with placing map-markers _just so_ … joining him in the chill pre-dawn light every morning to train in the woods above the town… quietly being there on his bad days.  It was weeks before he noticed that Marcus had stopped wearing a Lyrium flask when he was around him, a tiny act of consideration telling him how much the younger man actually _cared_ … 

He hadn’t known a companionship like that since Alistair left Kinloch Hold with Warden Duncan, and it strengthened his heart…

Looking back, in the wake of Adamant and Emprise de Lion, those scuffles with apostates and bandits seemed trivial; farmers once asked them to build watchtowers, now Kings and Grand Clerics entreated their aid and yet Marcus could never discount an urgent plea for help no matter who it came from.  It was why people trusted the Inquisition and why Cullen would never be able to stop loving him…

“It meant so much, to have him as a friend, a comrade… I never believed it could go beyond that. Now? I think that if I lost him it would kill me.”

“But you have not, and nor do I think you will.  If you did not truly care for each other these past few days would not have been so difficult...”

She put down her cup and thought for a moment, to Cullen it seemed as if she was trying to decide something. 

“It is challenging for people like us to love a Mage, we are trained to see the dangers of Magic and that makes it hard to be as open as we should... often to our own cost”

She noted Cullen’s astonished expression and her eyes narrowed

“Does it surprise you that I was in love with a Mage? Or that I was in love at all?”

Cullen started at the sudden sharpness of her tone and shifted awkwardly in his seat

“Forgive me! I… I didn’t mean to imply...”

Cassandra shook her head with a slight laugh, it was unfair to tease him just now

“His name was Regalyan, a Mage of the White Spire; courageous, handsome and witty – not entirely unlike another Mage we know -  a skilled healer and a true romantic.  We met when I was still a young Seeker, in _curious_ circumstances, and he changed the way I looked at Mages…”

Anthony’s murder turned her into hatred wielding a sword, damning all Mages for the actions of the Maleficara who took her brother’s life; Ser Bruno had tried his best to guide her through the anger that consumed her but she had been young and stubborn, unwilling to listen.  It was Regalyan who taught her to see with clear eyes again…

“…It was why I asked you to join the Inquisition, I saw someone struggling the way I had been and I could not let you face that alone; and why I was so anxious at seeing you and the Herald becoming closer…”

Cullen sat in silence, pondering everything Cassandra had said.  He’d sometimes wondered why she had been so insistent on recruiting him; there were more experienced officers with untainted reputations who would surely have served the Inquisition’s purpose far better.  Mere practicalities alone did not inform the Seeker’s judgement, however; he’d observed how often she made decisions based on criteria that a less… _insightful…_ person might discard as irrelevant.  He should be grateful for her determination, if not for that he would be dead or worse…

“What happened to him?” he asked cautiously.  He’d never heard Cassandra mention anything of this man, or of being in love, and it made him fearful of the answer. She paused for a moment, her eyes shadowed with memory, then continued

“We were lovers for some time but, after I became Right Hand, it was not easy for either of us; my duties often took me very far from Val Royeaux and he had his own responsibilities for the Circle. Eventually we drifted apart, although we never became completely estranged...  He was at the Conclave, one of the party supporting Most-Holy’s peace plan.  I had hoped we might get the chance to...”

Cassandra dismissed the thought, it would only hurt to ponder and the memory of that day already brought so much pain and regret 

“…I think of how brutal I was to Marcus when we took him prisoner, and I wonder... would I have been so harsh if it was Regalyan who stepped out of the Fade?”

Cassandra had been gentle, compared to how some reacted, Cullen remembered.  Many would have happily strung up the lone survivor without question; along with that memory came a nauseous twist of guilt that he might not have had the will or inclination to stop them if they tried.

“None of us were thinking clearly, Cassandra, I... I’m sorry about your... About Regalyan. I never thought to ask if you had lost anyone close at the Conclave.”

“Why should you? Thousands were dead and we had enough to do just to survive the night…”

The Divine’s death… the catastrophe of the torn sky… it had been days before she even stopped to consider what might have become of the man she still loved

“It’ll be the anniversary in a couple of weeks” Cullen said quietly “A lot of us are going to be having these thoughts...”

For anyone who had been involved in the Conclave, the coming days would be full of painful memories; friends and colleagues lost, hopes dashed underfoot, the unshakeable terror of the moment when the heavens ripped apart and demons ran wild. There had been victories over the following months, for sure, and their enemies were increasingly on the defensive but each success was tainted with fresh losses and fresh betrayals. 

The days ahead would bring their own share of troubles, including the inevitable confrontation with Samson.  Cullen felt the pressure building in his head, nerves fraying with guilt and anger; he knew it was going to be a bad night...

“It’s getting late, thank you for listening…” he stood and set his empty cup down on the table “I think I should try and get some sleep”

“Will you be all right?” It was a foolish but necessary question; she could see from his pallor, and the heavy stress-lines creasing his face, that the commander was far from well this evening.  Cullen smiled thinly

“Probably not, but I’m getting very used to that by now…”

###

Cullen was surprised to find Marcus sitting in his office, reading, when he got back to the Gate Tower

“I’m getting this chair re-upholstered first thing tomorrow” the young man said, shifting slightly but not looking up from his book “There’s a loose spring that’s so determined to get inside me I’m thinking of naming it after you…”

“My Lor… Marc… I didn’t…” Cullen closed the door and took a steadying breath; Marcus’s presence, while a surprise, was not an unwelcome one “I assumed you might want a little more time to yourself.”

“They’ll be banging and hammering in the Great Hall all night; the noise carries right up the stairs…” he closed the book and stood up.  Walking over to Cullen he slipped his arms around his waist and kissed him softly on the lips “and I didn’t want you to be alone…”

“It might… it might not be a good idea tonight…” Cullen warned him, Marcus only held him tighter

“Then I’m definitely staying…”

###

It was the sound that woke him, from a dream of trying to free a trapped Fennec that bit and clawed at him in its fear and pain; a high-pitched whimpering like the whining of the injured beast. Marcus thought it was still part of the dream until he realised the sound came from the man beside him

Cullen was curled into a tight ball, mind locked in whatever dark corner of the Fade to which it had been dragged.  His hands made vague, feeble, movements as if trying to push someone or something away and always that thin, gut-wrenching, keening.  Marcus had once tried to wake him from a state like this, receiving a panicked blow that sent him sprawling halfway across the room; coming round to Cullen’s frantic apologies and entreaties for forgiveness.

There was nothing he could do except wait, and pray for Cullen to be guided swiftly and safely back to the Waking World

Cullen woke with an anguished cry, eyes wild and staring; gasping for breath as the phantoms receded and the room solidified around him.  He could hear Marcus’s quiet voice promising him that he was awake and safe; the first tentative touch of reassurance on his cheek.

“They’re never going to let me go...” he lay back, running his hands over his face with a despairing groan, feeling the comfort of Marcus’s fingers gently carding through his hair; they were warm, human, convincing him that he was truly awake and not merely in the antechamber of another nightmare “It’s like they’re always there, just waiting for me to close my eyes so they can start again...”

“I wish there was more I could do to help you...” Marcus kept stroking Cullen’s head as the other man nestled closer to him. If the demons were still there it would be easy, just venture into the Fade and thrash them until they never came near again…

_Well, ‘easy’ might not be quite the right word…_

…it was their shadows, the wounds they’d left on Cullen’s mind and soul, that tormented him in the night; like the marsh-fever plaguing a man with recurring chills and nausea to the end of his days.  Lyrium, the sweet blue song that purged a Templar’s ills, was the only thing that had brought him relief; he would start taking it again if Marcus insisted, but the cost of that respite was too much for both of them and Cullen would no doubt resent - even hate - him for forcing that leash back around his neck. 

“You should not have to endure this…” Cullen muttered “But, I am grateful that you’re here… That… that helps more than you can imagine”

Marcus rested his hand on Cullen’s chest, feeling how his heart still pounded through his ribs.

“You never have to face this alone while I’m here. I promised you that the very first night we were together and you know I’m stubborn about keeping my promises...”

“That is something else I’m grateful for...” Cullen closed his eyes and sighed, wrapping his arms around Marcus and holding him close.  Marcus pulled the bedcovers up around their shoulders, kissing him fondly

“We should try to get some sleep” he murmured, although what was pressing into his thigh told him that sleep was not necessarily at the forefront of the Commander’s thoughts.  Cullen gave a quiet, shuddering, grunt of pleasure as Marcus rubbed against him…

“I think I might need a little… _distraction…_ first” he admitted, sliding his hand downwards; finding Marcus as ready and eager as he was

Marcus laughed, knowing that, for the next hour or so, Cullen’s thoughts would be far from the horrors of the night.

“In that case...” he reached for the small bottle of oil beside the bed “Let’s see if you can prove a more welcome intruder than that spring!”

###

“Are you _sure_ you are no relation to the d’Epignards, Commander?” the little man in Royale Sea-silk persisted, hand hovering an inch from Cullen’s arm “You have the same strong jaw and... erm... _stalwart_ presence...”

The Marquis de Lamboyard appeared happily unaware that, in the wake of a century of bitterly-remembered Orlesian occupation, his questioning lacked a certain tact…

“ _Quite sure_ , Messere Marquis...” Cullen snarled through gritted teeth, his gaze seizing on Marcus’s approach with the eagerness of a drowning man glimpsing the chance of rescue “Inquisitor! Your Worship...! You wanted to speak to me about... about...”

“Oh yes! About...  that...” Marcus smiled with believable geniality “I must beg your indulgence, Marquis, there are urgent matters that require I steal the commander from his pleasures”

“On the Eve of Firstnight?” even the ornate mask couldn’t disguise the Orlesian’s disappointed pout “Surely...”

“Our enemy does not rest, Messere” Marcus shrugged apologetically, steering Cullen away “We must be ever vigilant...”

“Thank you...” Cullen whispered earnestly as Marcus navigated them through the horde of guests in the Great Hall “I was near breaking point”

“I overheard Varric and Dorian wagering how far across the Hall you would punch him” Marcus murmured back, his mouth fixed in an innocuous smile as they made their way to one of the side-doors “He’s not _that_ important, but Josephine already has her hands full keeping Celene and Gaspard’s envoys from killing each other and I don’t want to cause her any more work…”

…It was a relief to exchange the noise, crowds and stifling heat of the Great Hall for the chill quiet of the Chantry Garden.  A Chanter, muffled against the cold in a thick woollen cloak, paced the paths in steady cadence; repeating the words of the Chant in a low monotone.  The Chantry itself was empty, lit only by the Eternal Flame and the candles around the foot of Andraste’s statue; the faint, spicy, aroma of incense hanging in the air.  Marcus took a candle from the basket by the door, leaving a few coins in the dish provided.

“I wanted to say a prayer for everyone we’ve lost over the last year.  I thought you might like to join me…”

He knelt, lighting the candle and bowing his head; Cullen kneeling beside him, calling to mind all those who had passed through the Fade into the unknown realms wherein the Maker walked.  Marcus had prayed many times for their departed friends, it was the nameless dead that haunted his memory tonight; those faces and voices that were just there in the vicinity, until the time you realised they were gone.  Like that groom - had he been from Ansberg or Markham? – whose ongoing flirtations with an Elven scout always made him smile a little when he passed the stableyard; or the two Sisters perpetually gossiping outside the Chantry, feigning business whenever one of the senior Clerics came into view.  So many lives crushed out, so many dreams and hopes extinguished forever…

_Andraste… Lady… speed them to the Maker’s side, the remembered and the forgotten… Grant them rest alongside your Anointed Ones…_

He was unaware of the Great Bell of the keep chiming until Cullen touched him softly on the shoulder, distant sounds of cheering coming from the Hall…

“Happy New Year to you, My Lord” he said, taking Marcus’s face in his hands and kissing him gently on the lips “Maker preserve you through the days to come…”

“And to you, My Lion…” Marcus murmured, returning the kiss “Andraste be your sword and shield…”

The guests in the Hall could wait a little longer; for now, all he wanted was here.


	23. Song of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As preparations continue for the Grand Masquerade Ball at the Winter Palace, Commander Cullen’s deteriorating condition remains a source of grave concern for Marcus and he turns his attention to the nature of Lyrium itself - hoping to find a clue that will enable him to help the former Templar endure, and survive, the ongoing struggle of withdrawal. The clues remain elusive, however, and Cullen has his own fears about the forces that may still tear him and Marcus apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Alerts***  
> Extensive references to (fantasy) drug use and withdrawal  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:37 Dragon: Ostwick Circle Tower**

“I don’t want to talk about it…  Maker… I… I don’t even want to think about it…”

Aidhan struggled not to stare at his hands.  He’d scrubbed them until they stung, until he was sure there wasn’t even a flake of blood left under his fingernails.  He didn’t want Marc to see… to know… that he’d been the one chosen to strike the killing blow. 

“It’s okay Aidh… really… I shouldn’t have asked…” Marcus rubbed the back of the young Templar’s neck “We can just sit here, or I could leave you alone… if you want?”

Aidhan shook his head.  He didn’t want to talk, but sitting silently with Marc in their favourite spot was making him feel better, more himself again.  He could almost forget the hissing, spitting, voice of the demon; the familiar face twisted into something unnatural…

A failed Harrowing always cast a grim shadow over everyone; the Templars and Senior Enchanters who witnessed it, the harrowed Mages reminded of what might have befallen them and the Apprentices – who knew only that one of their number would never come back, and who could not be told the reason why. 

The ‘Slayer’ was chosen by lot; Aidhan’s heart sank when he drew the red ball from the bag presented to him by the Revered Mother.  Ser Herrick had taken him to one side after, impressed on him the seriousness of the task.  An Abomination could not be allowed to live, it was no longer a person and could wreak appalling havoc if not stopped.  They’d all heard of what happened when the Fereldan Circle fell to Abominations, the atrocities perpetrated on Mage and Templar alike; with rebellion simmering in Circles across Thedas, such a thing could not be allowed here.  It might seem cruel but the lives of dozens, possibly hundreds, were at stake.

He’d been sure Jerome would pass.  He was smart, skilful and cunning, but not smart enough.  Everyone in the Harrowing Hall could see it was going wrong; Aidhan had been ready even before the signal.  The First Enchanter and Knight Commander both assured him he’d done well, a single blow swiftly dealt, and that what he’d killed hadn’t been Jerome; but it didn’t stop him feeling like a murderer…

The Revered Mother told him the Lyrium would take away these memories in time, that it was a gift of the Maker to his faithful servants; the blessing of forgetfulness after a life of trial.  Sitting here beside Marc… it didn’t feel like a blessing… what if he forgot this?

“You’ll always remember me, won’t you…?” he asked in a quiet, small, voice “Even if I don’t...?”

Marcus hugged him close. It was an odd question, but last night had put everyone in a strange and disoriented mood.

“I’ll never forget you, Aidh… That’s a promise…”

**9:42 Dragon: Early Verimensis (Wintermarch) Skyhold**

“...and the Comte du Cressy has offered the Inquisition use of his villa at Halamshiral as a temporary residence.”

Cullen grunted his disdain as Leliana concluded her update on the preparations for the Grand Masquerade.

“Another perfumed imbecile trying to buy favours…!” He shook his head irritably, staring down at the map.  A battle he could deal with, this constant back-room maneuvering made his skin crawl. “How much more of this do we have to put up with?”

Leliana and Josephine shared an amused glance as she turned to Marcus

“Shall I inform your uncle whether or not he should expect us…?”

Marcus fought to suppress a chuckle as Cullen looked up with a horrified expression

“Give Uncle Louis the details of the main party.  We’ll stick to the existing arrangements for the auxiliaries…”

“Maker…! Marcus, I’m sorry…” Cullen muttered, red-faced, as they left the Council Chamber “I… I should learn to keep my mouth shut…”

Marcus laughed, putting his arm around Cullen’s shoulders

“Don’t worry, Cull!  I’ve never met the man.  Chances are he’s exactly what you think…” He paused, tilting his head questioningly as a thought occurred to him “You don’t really like the nobility that much; does my title bother you?”

Cullen paused in his stride, the question catching him off-guard

“Marc… I…  You’ve seen where I came from.  If I hadn’t become a Templar I’d be, I don’t know… a farm-worker or a gamekeeper; maybe one of the Bann’s men at arms.  If I’d so much as looked the wrong way at a Lord or, Maker forbid, a Lady; it would have meant a flogging or worse…”

Cullen sat down on one of the benches lining the hallway outside the Chamber.  Cassandra had told him about the Trevelyans while Marcus still lay unconscious after the first attempt at sealing the Breach. A ‘…large clan, with a complicated coat of arms’, related to royalty and nobility across half of Thedas.  Marcus could call the Teryn of Highever and the Queen of Antiva ‘cousin’; there might even be a drop or two of Theirin blood there. 

Under the Nevarran Accord he was technically without rank, Mages lost all claim to titles and lands once they entered the Circle, but Lambert had nullified the Accord when the Circle voted for independence; there was now nothing, legally, to prevent a man like Marcus from claiming his due status… or marrying.  Eligible daughters of impeccable lineage were already being wafted under the Lord Inquisitor’s nose, some of them quite… agreeable…

Marcus sighed and sat down beside him, taking his hand

“Aidhan was a blacksmith’s son…” he spoke quietly, slowly, recalling a similar conversation in the grounds of Ostwick Tower “His parents gave him to the Chantry when he was three; there had been a couple of bad harvests and he was one mouth too many…  It doesn’t matter to me, it never has but I think it does to you… a lot”

Cullen found himself looking at the far door of the hallway, the one leading to Josephine’s office and the world outside; the world that had a thousand claims on the young man beside him.  Of course, it didn’t matter to Marcus, he’d lived in that environment since childhood – even in the Circle his rank had brought privileges that low-born Mages could only dream of – but it surrounded him with a web of obligations, of demanding voices and unavoidable duties; any one of which could end up tearing them apart... 

“They all want something from you… all of them… swarming round you like hungry rats, and…” He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath “and I’m afraid… one day… they’re going to take you away from me…”

He felt the grip on his hand tighten, and Marcus’s head resting against his

“If they try, they’ll find out just how much of a fighter I am…” Marcus promised “and if they do, I know nothing is going to stop my Lion from finding me again.”

The nightmares were still bad and, no matter how good Cullen was at hiding it, Marcus could tell the pain was getting worse.  Along with the physical symptoms came the anxiety and guilt together with the strain of upholding the role of Commander.  With the Grand Masquerade at Halamshiral only weeks away, he was pushing himself more than ever; determined to ensure that nothing was left to chance.  It was only with Marcus and Cassandra that he could let down the façade for a little while; show himself to be vulnerable and torn with doubt.  They were the only ones he trusted never to take advantage of his need…

“Wherever you go, My Lord, I will follow… no matter what it takes…” His attempt at a smile turned to a grimace and he bent forward, growling in discomfort at the sudden, sharp, spasming of his stomach muscles.  Marcus placed a steadying hand on his shoulder “Could… could you walk me to my chambers, I… I need to lie down…”

“I’ll take you up to mine, they’re closer…” He helped Cullen to his feet, trying not to sound as worried as he felt “If you think you can manage the stairs…”

Cullen nodded, wincing at another stab of pain…

They got as far as the Antechamber before Cullen’s legs started to give way.  Josephine rose with a cry of alarm as he stumbled forward, grabbing onto her desk for support

“Maker!  What….?”

Cullen turned as he felt hands take hold of his other arm, preventing him from falling, seeing Solas looking at him with concern.  Despite his size the elf was surprisingly strong

“Lady Montilyet, could you…?” Solas nodded at Josephine’s chair, she pulled it out further so he and Marcus could help Cullen to sit

“Shall I get Mother Giselle?” She asked, hovering nervously as Marcus handed Cullen a glass of water

“I just need a moment…” Cullen grumbled, growing embarrassment fuelling his irritation “there’s no call for any fuss…”

“It is not fuss, Commander…” Solas folded his arms and stepped back, observing him with a critical eye “You are clearly in a great deal of pain, and have been for several days now.  If I can be of any assistance…?”

“I doubt your fade-spirits could help with this…” Cullen snapped.  The idea of magic, or spirits, being used on him only increased the sharpness of his discomfort.  Even Marcus would never suggest such a thing…

If Solas was offended by the Commander’s response, he gave no sign

“Probably not…” he conceded in a calm voice “But Lyrium exists in the Fade as much as in this world; there may be spirits possessing knowledge of its effects unknown to the Chantry, or that the Chantry has not shared. I would be willing, if you are agreeable, to investigate.  If I am right, such knowledge could be of use to you; and to other Templars seeking to break the Chantry’s leash…”

“I…” Cullen looked up at Solas, his face pale and beaded with sweat “I apologise.  You’re trying to help and… I… appreciate that.”

“You are a good man, Commander, I dislike seeing you in such a state” He looked across at Marcus “And now, if you feel able, perhaps the Inquisitor and I can get you somewhere quiet and comfortable?”

There were never many people at this end of the Great Hall, and the heavy drapes effectively masked them as they helped Cullen reach the door leading to Marcus’s chambers.  He seemed to be getting steadier on his feet and needed minimal assistance to reach the top of the stairs. 

“You don’t have to…” he protested as Marcus settled him on the bed and knelt to remove his boots

“No, but I want to…” Marcus smiled up at him, then turned to Solas “Thank you for your help, I can manage from here…”

“Of course,” the Elf gave a small bow of acknowledgement “With your permission, I would like to use the Private Library, there are some volumes that might be relevant.  If you have time, later, I would like to discuss options with you.”

Only Marcus held keys to the repository of rare magical lore housed in a basement floor of the Great Tower.  He’d expected Solas to object, with the same vehemence expressed by Dorian and Vivienne, at this restriction however the Elf seemed to agree that the books within were too potent and rare to be generally accessible.  Marcus handed him the key then looked back at Cullen, now lying on the bed with his hand over his eyes.

“I don’t know how long I’ll be but, yes, I think we need to talk…” What Solas had said about Lyrium in the Fade… there were things Dagna mentioned in her ramblings, and some of Coles odd little mutterings, suggesting there was more to Lyrium – much more – than the power it granted Mages and Templars.  The Chantry called it the Emerald Waters of the Fade, the substance by which the Maker formed the world, what if they were wrong and it was something else altogether…?

As the elf left, Marcus sat on the bed; massaging Cullen’s feet, quietly cursing his inability to offer any real relief to this ongoing suffering.

“Would you like me to ask Mother Giselle for something…?”

Cullen shook his head; tonics of Elfroot or Embrium, even Prophet’s Laurel, were of little use.  They might soothe the worst of the symptoms for a time but the effects were limited.  

“There’s no point.  We both know there’s only one cure for this… and I can’t…” He lay there, letting Marcus’s careful touch ease the worst of his anxiety.  Eventually his mouth relaxed into a smile and he opened his eyes “Go and speak to Solas… I’ll be alright on my own”

“Are you sure?”  It was true that he was eager to hear whatever Solas had to say, but the thought of leaving Cullen alone troubled him.

“All I need is a little rest…” Cullen assured him “I’ll still be here when you get back…”

“Good, I’ll hold you to that promise” he leaned down and kissed him “I won’t be too long…”

###

“It’s going to kill him, isn’t it…?”

Marcus closed the door of the Private Library behind him.  Templars were saturated with Lyrium.  Cullen had been taken it, in increasing amounts, every day for over ten years; it was in his blood and his bones.  Marcus could smell it on his skin, taste it every time they kissed.  It must be almost a year and a half since Cullen last took any and the lack of it still tortured him.

Solas set aside his book and thought for a moment

“I’m afraid that is very likely.  It appears that Lyrium becomes part of a Templar, like the Taint in a Grey Warden; it makes him who he is and he cannot escape it.  The Commander has great strength to have endured this long; he may endure for another year or so but, eventually, that strength will be exhausted…  I am sorry, it is a cruel truth and I wish I could tell you otherwise”

There had been a Templar at the Ostwick Circle, Ser Jiovan; one night they found him hacking at an apple tree in the grounds, shouting that it was possessed and any who ate of its fruit would become an abomination.  Some of the other Templars had dragged him away, screaming and shouting that they were all pawns of blood-mages.  He’d not been that old either, Marcus recalled, only in his mid-forties… he hadn’t been the only one, either…

“I’ve seen Templars have their minds taken by Lyrium. I would…  I would rather Cullen died fighting to be free than rot away like that, but I’m not going to stop looking for a way to help him.”

Solas nodded his approval.  This young Mage was a man with a surprising subtlety of mind, especially for one so imbued with the world-view of the Chantry and the Templar Order. His honest curiosity about the world of spirits, and willingness to entertain unorthodox ideas, was encouraging; as was his fiery determination to aid the man he loved.

“Nor should you, the Fade holds many secrets and somewhere among them may be the answer to the riddle of Lyrium…”  The Elf fell silent, folding his hands in his lap, pondering how far he could take this conversation without revealing things he would rather keep hidden.

“Is Lyrium alive?” Solas looked up sharply at the unexpected question “Cole keeps talking about it singing, and that the Red Templars hear a different song.  When you mentioned the Taint, I remembered what Anders said about the Calling; how it’s the song of the Old Gods… could this be something similar?”

“I have no answer to that, although it has been suggested. I have never taken it; I learned to enter the Fade without its use and, for an apostate, the act of purchasing risks attracting Chantry attention…” Solas paused, brows furrowing in thought, that was not strictly true – but it had been long ago and under different circumstances, without the complex rites of preparation the Chantry and the Circle deemed necessary.  This was an area where even he had to admit a lack of precise knowledge “…but it would explain the intensity of the addiction, and why Commander Cullen still suffers such severe symptoms.  I suspect the Chantry does not even partly understand it’s nature; merely valuing it as a tool.  As one trained and familiar with its use in that context, it is possible you might be better seeking such answers than me...”

Marcus leaned back against one of the bookcases, shaking his head with a sigh.  Lydia hadn’t been keen on him using Lyrium potions on a regular basis; the diluted infusions used by Mages had little potency compared to the almost pure doses the Templars took, but they still encouraged dependency after time and diminished a Mage’s natural ability to regenerate their own Mana.  The stuff always gave him a bit of a hangover anyway. 

“Aidhan said that, for a few seconds after he’d taken a dose, it was like he could hear the world’s heart beating…” Marcus laughed slightly, his cheeks colouring “He’d also be quite… erm… _frisky_ …”

Solas laughed out loud, a rare thing for the Elf

“Aha! Yes! I have heard of the aphrodisiac properties of Chantry Lyrium, rather ironic really…” he resumed his customary solemnity, as if some internal decision had been made “If you are willing, I can help you locate places, spirits, in the Fade that might be able to assist; although it would not be without risk…”

Marcus folded his arms across his chest and looked questioningly at him.

“Possession being the least of those, I assume?”

Solas nodded, hesitating before continuing to speak

“These places… they are far from where the normal dreaming mind roams.  When venturing into such locations there is always the danger that the dreamer might not be able to find their way back, or that they might become trapped in some way.  You have been in the Fade physically, twice, I do not need to warn you of its perils…”

The meaning behind the Elf’s careful words was clear to Marcus.  Whatever he may feel for Cullen, he couldn’t afford to put himself in un-necessary danger before their enemy had been dealt with – no matter what the motivation…

“So, defeat Corypheus and pray that Cullen’s will doesn’t fail in the meantime?”

“It is always difficult to put duty before love, but sometimes there is no choice…” For a moment Solas seemed to be looking through Marcus, rather than at him, thoughts fixed on some distant memory.  He blinked, returning his attention to the present and the man in front of him “The Commander is a stubborn man and not one to give up easily.  There is still the chance he may yet conquer this, and I will do my best to locate such answers as I can…”

The conversation had done little to lift Marcus’s mood and, thanking Solas, he left the Elf to his studies.  A familiar smell caught his attention as he crossed the hallway.  They were baking those cinnamon pastries, the ones with honey and almonds, that Cullen enjoyed snacking on; too sugary for Marcus’s taste, but the Commander had a bit of a sweet tooth.  The Head Cook wasn’t around, she could get quite irritable when any of ‘the gentry’ encroached on her domain, and a few flirting words to one of the kitchen maids won him a platter of the freshly baked treats.  At least it might cheer Cullen up… 

“Can I have one please…?”

Marcus jumped at the unexpected voice.  Cole perched on the window ledge, watching him with a shy smile

“Seeker Pentaghast says I’m not to take food from the kitchens even if I make the servants forget. She says it’s still stealing…”

“Maker…!   I… I suppose it is…” Marcus took a deep breath to stop himself from shaking “Of course you can, Cole, I’m glad you’re learning to ask…”

“Thank you…” Cole jumped down from the ledge and picked a smaller one.  Taking a large one was Being Greedy “You’re worried about Cullen… you’re afraid he’s going to die. He’s afraid he’s going to die as well… but he doesn’t want to say it in case that makes it real.”

“Is he…?”  The question was out before Marcus could stop himself but Cole just looked puzzled

“I don’t know…” he turned the pastry in his hands, examining it closely “He’s strong… and you make him stronger.  He likes it when you call him a lion… it makes him happy…”

“You told me Lyrium sings…” Marcus wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by. It seemed too fortuitous “What do you mean by that?”

The boy looked at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world

“It sings, and the song makes the world real...  It’s what the Templars hear… _They_ make the world real around them, that’s why they can stop magic... That’s why it hurts when they don’t take it...” Cole sniffed at the pastry and nibbled the edge “It’s why it hurts Cullen so much...  makes him remember what the demons did to him... It wants him to make the song real again...”

“You’re saying the Lyrium _wants_ Cullen to take it?”  Marcus was intrigued and slightly disturbed. What Cole was saying… it suggested some form of sentience and the implications of that were vast.

Cole took another bite and chewed thoughtfully

“Songs aren’t real if no-one hears them...” He said at last “I think I like eating...”

…and Marcus was alone again, the only evidence of Cole’s presence a few scattered crumbs on the floor. Shaking his head in perplexity he continued up the stairs, whenever he began to understand the strange spirit-boy, Cole would spin off in another direction as if trying to defy definition. If only he could, or would, explain what he meant about songs...

Cole was back perched on the window-ledge, watching sadly, wishing he’d been able to make Marcus understand about the Song.  He wanted to help Cullen, had tried to, but the quiet Templar’s mind was alert and resistant to any intrusion; and Cullen didn’t want to let go of the pain… he thought he deserved it, because of all the people he’d hurt when the fear made him cruel… he was afraid he’d become cruel again and hurt Marcus… _It’s the pain that gives him the strength to be good…_

###

Cullen was asleep when Marcus returned to his chamber, curled up peacefully with a pillow hugged to his chest.  He smiled quietly to himself, put the plate with the remaining pastries on the bedside table, and walked over to his desk.  Josephine’s voluminous notes about the Masquerade still needed his attention and now was as good a time as any. 

The clock had just finished chiming the Seventh Hour when he heard Cullen stir and yawn.  The Commander frowned as he realised it was dark, the room lit only by fire and the candles around Marcus’s desk.  He sat up, rubbing his eyes

“What… what time is it?”

“Just after seven; there’s fresh tea brewing if you want some” Marcus tapped the pot, warming over the spirit lamp, with his pen “and I got you some pastries from the kitchen… your favourites…”

“Seven?” Cullen looked aghast “But what about…?”

Marcus laughed, closing his journal

“Blackwall put the new recruits through their paces…” he poured a cup of tea and took it over to Cullen “I didn’t want to wake you, it’s the first unbroken sleep you’ve had in days”

Cullen swung his feet off the bed and took the cup from Marcus; the warm, dark, herbal smell filling his nostrils. Tiny comforts, like when he had the winter-fever as a child and Mum made him chicken broth, but enough to remove his thoughts from the chills and the ache.

“Thank you…  I… I am feeling better now…”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.  Let Blackwall take over with the recruits for a while, and Leliana has the arrangements for the Masquerade in hand.  Take a break… or at least don’t try to manage everything.”

Cullen took one of the pastries from the plate, looking at Marcus with a slightly raised eyebrow

“Is that an order, _Your Worship_?”

Marcus laughed and sat down beside him

“If necessary, but I’d rather it wasn’t. It took me a long enough to accept I didn’t have to do everything myself.  You’ve trained up some good people, Cull, let them share a bit of the burden.”

Cullen bit into the pastry.  It was still warm and the almonds slightly scorched, just how he liked it…

“You’re starting to sound like Mia…” A thought crossed his mind and he glanced suspiciously at Marcus “Did you write to her?”

“I… may have dropped her a note, just to let her know you have friends looking after you” Marcus admitted “But if you wrote to her more often…”

“Now you _definitely_ sound like her…” Cullen laughed, although he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of annoyance.  Marcus could be a _little_ presumptuous at times…

 

 

 

 

 


	24. And The Dance Goes On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ***Spoiler Alert***  
> Spoilers for ‘Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts’ and ‘Before the Dawn’  
> In the wake of the Masquerade Ball at Halamshiral, Marcus and Cullen receive confirmation of the whereabouts of Corypheus’s General – but luck still favours Ralegh Samson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***Trigger Warnings***  
> Strong Language. Death. Violence. Suicide. Homo-eroticism: Just another day in Thedas really  
> ****Disclaimer****  
> Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.  
> Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

**9:41 Dragon: Umbralis (Firstfall) Somewhere in the Nevarran Blightlands**

Samson didn’t need Maddox to tell him the boy was beyond help.  The crystals were growing too fast, consuming rather than transforming; if only they still had Imshael to shepherd the process.  They’d invested a lot of time and effort into Sahrnia, lost a lot of good men and resources there.  Looking back, it was inevitable it would draw the attention of Trevelyan and his gang but, with a bit of luck, Florianne would be able to deal with that smug little shit – even though the bitch was playing them for her own ends.  Trusting an Orlesian was always dangerous.

Samson held the mug of wine to the Templar’s lips, lifting his head so he could swallow; it was touch and go with the young ones, most didn’t have enough regular Lyrium in their systems to slow and regulate the change.  Increasing the doses before starting them on the Red didn’t work – not enough time to assimilate properly, at least that’s what Maddox thought.

“Drink it down, lad…” he urged “It’ll be over soon…”

A dram of Death Cap in a half pint of red wine, he would be asleep in minutes and never wake.  The boy turned blind, bleeding eyes to the sound of Samson’s voice

“Sir… I… I’m sorry… I w-was weak… n-not worthy…”

“Shush, lad…” Samson laid the young Templar’s head back down on the pillow “You tried, and there’s honour in that. Don’t be afraid.”

Samson looked round at the other cots in the tent; the Red was a harsh mistress but the ones who survived her kiss would go on to shake the world. Erimond, Alexius, Florianne – they were the weak ones, caught up in petty schemes; no vision beyond their own ends and self-glory.  None had the purity of purpose these lads showed, and he would be the one to lead them into victory; the Vessel of the Master’s Will, a Flaming Sword in His Hand – tearing down the lies and opening the gates of Heaven. Not too shabby for a butcher’s boy from Lowtown.  He left the tent and made his way back to the main Shrine, acknowledging the salutes of his men as he passed; that beautiful bunch of bastards who’d tear the old world to shreds…

Maddox hunched over his workbench, making minute adjustments to the Lyrium crystals set into an arm-greave.  The Tranquil’s focus was absolute, broken only when Samson touched him on the shoulder.  He turned without surprise and looked up at the General

“The structure of some of the runes has been weakened. I have prepared a list of additional supplies I require in order to stabilise them”

His calm monotone was oddly soothing, Samson had never found it disturbing the way some did.  If anything, Tranquillity had turned Maddox’s skill as an artificer into genius; Rutherford had done him a favour without even knowing it.  He’d have to remember to thank him when he was making the fucker eat his own eyes.  He looked down at the list Maddox handed him; most of the items on it he wouldn’t be able to pronounce, let alone say what they were.  He shook his head slightly

“Another supply trip’s a big risk, you sure someone else can’t get these?”

Maddox pondered the question for a moment

“The men I deal with might not be willing to sell to a stranger, General; it could cause unwelcome complications.”

‘Complications’ – that was one thing they didn’t need right now.  Samson handed the list back to Maddox then hesitated; what he was thinking definitely fell under the heading of a complication, but it might be his last opportunity.

“Could you take a message to someone in Kirkwall for me?”

Once again, Maddox lapsed into silent thought; considering the potential dangers in the General’s request

“It might be unwise…” he began

“I didn’t ask if it was wise…” Samson growled “I asked if you could do it?”

“If the intended recipient is still alive and in Kirkwall I do not doubt it would be possible.”

“Good…”  Samson dipped a pen in the inkwell and pulled a piece of paper toward him.  A few words would be sufficient, enough to let Serendipity know he hadn’t deliberately abandoned her…

**9:42 Dragon; Pluitanis (Guardian) Halamshiral**

“Urrgh...  Cull, could you help me out of this?”

Cullen threw his belt onto a nearby chair and sat on the bed beside Marcus; carefully easing the heavy dress tunic away from his shoulders and arms.  Through the fine silk of the undershirt he could see the swelling and bruising starting to appear.

“You should have told me you were injured...” He grumbled, unlacing it and slowly working it up and over Marcus’s head

“It’s nothing, I just...” the young Mage grunted in pain as he lifted his arms “I wrenched my shoulder a bit, that’s all...”

“That’s all?” Cullen frowned at the livid, purplish blue, bruises covering Marcus’s back and sides, and the angry red swelling around the joint “It looks like you dislocated it.  Maker! I thought I was stubborn… you must have been in agony all evening”

“The Empress wanted to dance, I couldn’t really refuse…” Marcus grinned at the continued look of concerned disapproval “…and there was someone else I had to dance with.”

Cullen snorted with laughter

“If you can call shuffling awkwardly round the balcony dancing, I fear I compared poorly with your other partners...”

Marcus leaned over and kissed him, tousling the Commander’s hair into the mess of thick curls he preferred

“I’m rather shuffle round a balcony with you than dance with a thousand Celenes...”

They’d done it, against all the odds, and in one of the most lethal environments in Thedas.  Never mind Emprise de Lion or the Hissing Wastes, Halamshiral was where their lives and the future of the Inquisition were at stake.  With Gaspard and Florianne awaiting judgement and Briala neutralised, Celene Valmont was secure on her throne and the Lord Inquisitor a hero of the Empire.  At least for today...

“Wait here, I have something that will help...”

Cullen got up and walked through the connecting door to his own room.  Marcus’s Uncle Louis had given the two men adjoining rooms in case they needed to ‘discuss strategy’. The Comte du Cressy hadn’t been the powdered fop Cullen feared, but a veteran Chevalier with an astute wit and a cynically clear understanding of the Game. Despite his reservations about the Nobility, especially its Orlesian variety, the Commander found himself warming to their host. 

He returned a few minutes later with a small, wooden, jar in his hand.  Marcus recognised the hot, spicy, smell as soon as the lid came off

“Templar’s Ease! I’d almost forgotten about that...”

Cullen smiled, spreading the ointment onto Marcus’s shoulders and back; massaging it deep into the skin. It was an old recipe, used by the Order for ages, a sovereign treatment for bruising, sprains or tears.  The warmth would suffuse the damaged muscles; the herbs and spices relaxing them and numbing the pain.  Marcus leaned back with a contended groan as Cullen’s strong, adept, fingers continued their work

“You take care of me often enough...” He murmured, nuzzling Marcus’s ear “Tonight it’s my turn to look after you.”

His hands moved slowly, following the line of the Mage’s shoulders and back; firmly enough for the ointment to be absorbed without causing further discomfort.  Unable to resist, he bent his head a little further; brushing his lips against Marcus’s neck, savouring the faint tang of salt and musk on the skin.  With a soft moan, Marcus tilted his head back and to one side, allowing the Commander easier access

“Is this part of the treatment…?” he murmured “Because it’s definitely making me feel a _lot_ better…”

“Only in _very_ special cases… My Lord…”

Cullen slid one hand round to caress the solid curve of Marcus’s chest; gently teasing a nipple with thumb and forefinger, the pressure increasing in response to the low snarl of desire.  The other moved further down, cupping and stroking the bulge between Marcus’s thighs – feeling it harden as the younger man ground his hips back against Cullen’s own growing erection. Marcus turned his head, so his mouth could find his lover’s; need dulling the edge of the aching throb in his shoulder. There was only one thing he wanted... Blue eyes looked deep into amber and saw the same hunger reflected there…

“Cull…?” he whispered, leaning back against Cullen’s chest as the Commander’s lips continued their exploration of his neck

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Fuck me…”

###

Marcus lay awake listening to Cullen’s soft snores.  The sleeping Commander lay half on top of him, head pillowed on his chest where a small puddle of drool was beginning to form.  He couldn’t stop himself from smiling.  Maker willing, it would be another peaceful night; Cullen could hide the physical symptoms, but the nightmares couldn’t be concealed and these had diminished on the road to Halamshiral.  It might be a temporary respite, but it was a welcome one; their journey was far from at an end and the road ahead led into the heart of darkness…

They would need every ounce of strength before they could find their rest…

###

“…and requests for audience from the Val Royeaux Council of Guilds; they are falling over each other to offer goods and services to the Inquisition now that we bask in the favour of the Court!”

“Maker’s Breath! Already? It’s only been twelve hours since the damn ball ended…” Cullen shook his head in disbelief, staring at the sheaf of letters Josephine placed on the table as he reached for another sweet-roll from the basket

“This is Orlais, Commander…” Leliana smiled faintly as Cullen broke a piece off the roll and dipped it into his bowl of steaming hot chocolate; his disdain for all things Orlesian did not appear to extend to their breakfast customs “One must be swift to gain advantage in the Game.  I’m sure we might even be able to tempt a _maitre p_ _âtissier_ to Skyhold with the right incentive.”

“And what about those?” Marcus laughed, nodding at the letters remaining in the Ambassador’s hand and grabbing a couple of the rolls before Cullen wolfed them all down

“These…?” Josephine’s eyes sparkled with amusement “Inquiries about marital status and lineage… from a number of interested parties.”

“What? Let me see…” Marcus laughed louder “This should be fun…”

“Oh, I left yours on the desk in your quarters; these are for Commander Cullen” she placed them down beside the Commander, unable to conceal her mirth any longer “Apparently ‘The Lion of the Inquisition’ made quite an impression last night.”

Cullen looked as if Josephine had put a live viper on the table.  Some of the letters were on _coloured_ paper and… _scented_ …

He scowled at the two women then across at Marcus, shaking with laughter, at the other side of the table.

“You… you can take… _these_ and light fires with them…” he snapped, his cheeks reddening “I have no interest…”

“Oh, come now, this could be valuable intelligence” Leliana reached over and picked them up, glancing down at the first one “Don’t you want to know who pines for your…. ‘fierce glances’?”

“No, I most certainly do not!” Cullen’s embarrassment was giving way to obvious irritation “I had enough to deal with, being ogled and pawed at all last night, without being used as some piece of bait in your…”

“I think all these letters should be met with a polite refusal” Marcus gingerly took them from Leliana and handed them back to Josephine, the joke was going a little too far “Regretfully, the duties of the Lord Inquisitor and the Commander mean they must sacrifice such personal considerations in the face of the struggle to come.”

The look he gave to both women made it plain the matter was emphatically closed.  Leliana gave a tiny nod of acquiescence. 

“A masterful response, Your Worship.” Josephine put the letters back in her portfolio “One that leaves the hope of advantages yet to be gained.  You are quite the player of the Game…”

“It’s played everywhere…” Marcus threw an apologetic glance at Cullen, still glowering over his breakfast “Orlesians just think they’re better at it”

“They’ll certainly think twice before underestimating a Marcher again...” Leliana acknowledged, taking out the message that arrived in the small hours and handing it over to Marcus “and there is something here that might interest you more. It appears your suspicions were correct...”

Marcus read the message from Scout Harding with a growing expression of grim satisfaction. He looked across at Cullen

“They’ve found Samson’s lair...”

###

Even changing horses every few hours, it was almost two weeks hard riding from Val Royeaux to the Blightlands of Northern Nevarra; the pace slowing as they progressed further into the wilderness.  They were lucky it was Winter, in Summer the heat would be unbearable, but it still burned fiercer than the hottest Ferelden Solace.  Under any other circumstances, Marcus would have been profoundly uncomfortable with Cullen accompanying them -  Red Templars meant Lyrium, lots of it, normal and red -  the thought of Cullen, in his present state, being exposed to that was troubling but he could not be denied the right to participate. ‘Samson is my responsibility…’ he’d said that frequently; only Marcus, and possibly Cassandra, knew the depths to which the commander felt responsible for his old comrade’s degradation.

The main inquisition camp was a half-dozen miles to the south-west of the Shrine; a sheltered oasis with just enough warm, murky, water to keep men and horses supplied.  The Western Approach was a garden of delights in comparison.  Even the normally irrepressible Scout Harding appeared worn and tired.

“I’m glad you’re here, your Worship…” she said, as Marcus dismounted “I just hope it’s not too late.”

Marcus glanced at Cullen

“What’s happened?”

Harding grimaced

“The bulk of the Red Templars marched out this morning, following the route of the old Imperial Highway.  Ever since then, well… come and see”

She led the two men to the ridge above the oasis, from where they could see black smoke lazily rising from the direction of the Shrine

“Shit…” The rare profanity hissed from between Cullen’s lips; Samson’s luck was still holding good

“We’ve sent messages to alert Sister Nightingale’s agent’s further along the route.” Harding informed them “There’s still a small force at the Shrine, I’d guess they’re the ones charged with covering Samson’s tracks.”

“Then we’d better get down there…” Marcus forced a smile in the direction of the Head Scout “Before they do too good a job…”

###

The smell clung to them; the thick, greasy stench of rotting and burning flesh. At least Samson had done the sick the mercy of cutting their throats before ordering his men to set the fires. Knowing what to expect didn’t make it easier and more than a few of the Inquisition troops lost their stomach contents as they advanced into the burned-out Shrine of Dumat…

The remaining Red Templar contingent might have been small but each one fought with a berserk strength.  Even Bull looked near the point of collapse as they cut down what they hoped was the last of the Behemoths guarding the Sanctuary. Lyrium vials, empty and licked clean, crunched underfoot as they moved carefully forward into the chaos and destruction.  The fires hadn’t gained a foothold amidst the stone and iron of the temple proper, and much of the furnishing remained intact.  The place of Dumat’s altar appeared to have become both living space and laboratory; workbenches covered in shattered equipment and personal items scattered everywhere.  

Spikes and clusters of Red Lyrium grew from walls, ceiling and floor; glowing with a dull, evil light – tinging everything the colour of clotting blood. The only sounds, apart from their footsteps, the distant crackle of flames and the nightmarish humming emitted by the Lyrium growths.  It felt like they were in the heart of some colossal demon and Marcus had no doubt that Dagna was right, this was alive.

A noise, a gasping cough, made them turn suddenly; weapons raised to confront whatever new monstrosity faced them.  Half-hidden behind an overturned bookcase, a man in Circle Robes sat with his back against a workbench; as they slowly moved round, ready to react to any threat, Cullen caught his breath in shocked recognition

“Maddox?” The man raised his head, gazing at Cullen and Marcus with drowsy grey eyes

“Knight-Captain...” despite the laboured breathing he still had the neutral, steady, tones of a Tranquil “General Samson thought you would come; and this must be the Inquisitor...”

His body shook with a fit of coughing.  Marcus knelt beside him, taking the flask gently from his hand.  One sniff told him what Maddox had done

“Deathcap... Maddox, we wouldn’t have hurt you.  You didn’t have to do this.”

The tranquil turned to look at Marcus, moving his head slowly and with great effort

“I know…  It would have been… l-logical for me to tell you everything about hi... his plan...” He swallowed, with some difficulty, words starting to slur.  Marcus took the water bottle from his belt and offered it but Maddox shook his head “So... So it was also log... logical for me to kill myself... so that I... I...”

His head slumped forward with a long, hoarse, sigh; jaw hanging slack. Marcus reached out and closed the dead man’s eyes

“Andraste, have mercy on him...” He breathed softly as he stood, placing the flask on the workbench and turning to Cullen.  The Commander stared down at the dead man, hand gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that Marcus could see his knuckles straining against the leather of his glove. “We should get out of here… let the specialists in to do their work.”

“I’ll second that” grumbled Bull “This place is giving me a headache”

They were all feeling nauseous, the air heavy with Lyrium fumes – _incaensor_ , they called it in Tevinter ‘dangerous substance’.  The ‘Specialists’, Dwarves and Tranquil who could handle it with relative safety, would do what was needed.  With the Shrine now secure, there was no point in endangering the troops or themselves any further.  Marcus took a final glance around, unable not to feel impressed.  This place had stood, virtually intact, since before the First Blight.  It might even have been where Corypheus, when still human, had served as High Priest; it certainly had the grandeur and dignity to have been one of Dumat’s principal sanctuaries.  Say what you like about the Old Imperium, they built to last.

Cullen was silent as they made their way back to camp; a silence Marcus knew better than to break until they were in their tent, and then it was with just one word

“Strip”

Cullen looked at him in surprise, then nodded in understanding as he saw the other man’s expression.  As he removed his armour and underclothes, Marcus carefully checked for any wound that might possibly act as a point of infection…

“This is what worries you isn’t it?” Cullen asked as Marcus threw him his breeches “The thing that gives you nightmares…”

“We still don’t know how it takes hold, whether it has to be through ingestion or…” Marcus shrugged, frustrated by their lack of knowledge “but yes… it’s the thing that gives me nightmares”

Cullen hesitated, there was something he’d often wondered but never asked

“At Redcliffe… when Alexius sent you into that future; did… did you see…?”

Marcus swallowed down the bile that rose with the memory; Cullen nailed living to a beam, crystals erupting from his flesh like monstrous tumours, pleading for the mercy of the blade…  He nodded, mutely, and Cullen laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps I should check you as well, just to be sure…”

“Well! This’ll teach me to knock in future!” They both turned to see Dorian lounging in the entrance, bottle of brandy in hand “I thought you could do with a spot of refreshment, but you seem to be doing fine by yourselves.”

Marcus laughed as Cullen hastily pulled on his breeches; the Tevinter’s intrusion providing a welcome break from the tension they both felt.

“I hate to disappoint you, but you weren’t interrupting anything.  We were just checking, for, you know…”

Dorian nodded sagely, placing the bottle down on the table

“A wise precaution, given how pernicious the stuff is” a wicked smile curled his lips “Perhaps I should offer you both a second opinion… just to be sure, you know”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine…” Cullen grumbled with a half-smile “Thank you for the brandy”

“Oh no… you don’t get off that lightly” Dorian set three glasses beside the bottle “I have no intention of letting the two of you brood and mope all night, like you have since we left Val Royeaux.  Tonight, we will drink brandy and make light, witty, conversation… or rather, I will make light witty conversation while the two of you laugh appropriately.  This is not negotiable…”

Dorian held both men with a steady, determined, look.  It was too close-knit a company for him not to be aware of the stresses they were under, or of the gradual deterioration in Cullen’s health that had Marcus so worried; Skyhold was not a place where secrets could easily be kept.  This evening, at least, he could provide them with a little distraction.  Marcus sighed in good natured defeat and pulled up a stool, motioning Cullen to join them

“Very well, you win” he grinned “But this had better be the good stuff…”

“Good? This is from the Empress’s personal reserve” Dorian raised an affronted eyebrow then smirked slightly “The guard on the wine-cellar was _very_ easily persuaded”


End file.
